Snapshots
by HCAddict
Summary: A series of one-shots giving a snapshot of a specific event/experience in the lives of Sam in Dean, ranging from childhood through adulthood. Some are fluffy, some hurt/comfort.
1. Chapter 1

**This will be a collection of one-shots serving as snapshots over different experiences/events in Sam and Dean's lives. Some will be fluff, some will be hurt/comfort. If you have any requests, I will consider all. **

**This first one is a bit of fluff that takes place when Sam is 5, Dean is 9. Dean is in charge of Sam who is being silly and not listening because he's on a sugar-high. John comes home to find that they hadn't followed the rules/schedule he had left for them, and there is a bit of kid-level drama between the two boys. Sam is a little bratty, because most five year olds are a little bratty, and Dean is a little annoyed, because most big brothers are when their little brothers are being bratty.**

"Dean is a buttface, Dean is a buttface!" Sam taunted, sticking out his tongue at his older brother and crossing his eyes in an attempt to make a silly face. He squealed when Dean rounded the corner of the cheap motel table, darting away from the sitting area and moving to the first of the two beds in the sleeping area, jumping up and down on the worn blue fabric blanket, "Stinky poopy buttface!"

"I'm going to get you, brat!" Dean threatened, lunging at the very naked five year old who was now scrambling to the second bed, "Dad's going to be back soon and he's going to be pissed if you aren't in bed. You know the rules, Sammy."

"_You know the rules_." Sam mocked, continuing to jump even though he could see Dean was far past 'amused' and heading straight to 'furious' in regard to his blatant refusal to get in the bathtub and get ready for bed. "I'm not going. Not going! Not going! Not going! Not going!"

"Shut up!" Dean shouted, completely out of patience and starting to worry about how much trouble _he_was going to be in if Dad came back and found _this_happening. "Come on, Sammy, stop being a little brat and just get in the tub."

"No!" Sam shouted, crossing his arms defiantly, "You're going to get water in my face!"

Dean knew the kid had a point, the chances of Sam getting water in his face while getting his hair washed was very high, especially since Dean was now in a hurry. He just didn't understand why Sam was so freaked out about the idea of water in his face. He liked swimming, wasn't in the exact same thing? With a sigh, he coaxed, "I won't get water in your face, I'll be very careful."

"You're lying!"

Again, Dean had to agree with the little brat. He hated when Sam was right. Trying not to appear as irritated as he felt, he decided to try to negotiate instead. Sometimes a bit of bribery went a long way with his little brother. "How about this, Sammy? If you take a really fast bath, I'll let you watch TV until we hear Dad pull up."

Sam eyed his brother suspiciously, knowing that Dean rarely broke their Dad's rules, and when he did, it certainly wasn't for something like staying up late to watch TV. After studying his brother for a few seconds, he stuck out his hand, "Pinky promise?"

Trying not to let his relief show, Dean quickly looped his pinky around his brother's, "Pinky promise." Sam darted off to the bathroom, a little ball of neverending energy, and Dean glanced at the clock with a groan. They were already cutting it really close to when their Dad said he'd be home, and there was a good chance that Sam wouldn't even be out of the tub by the time Dad walked through the door. It was always really hard to get Sam into the tub, but it was exponentially harder to get Sam out of the tub once in.

Dad's rules had been clear; after school Dean needed to do his homework, take Sam and the laundry to the small laundry facility adjacent to their motel, fix dinner, bathe Sam and himself and have Sam in bed by 8:00. The afternoon had started off smoothly, Dean had loaded up the laundry and brought his homework with them to work on while the clothes washed. Sam had entertained himself by reading out loud from Dean's history book which attracted the attention of this nosy old lady who was washing her laundry and couldn't help but marvel over Sam, who she called 'a tiny little reading prodigy'. He was incredibly proud of Sam's innate ability to learn, but he didn't like strangers taking interest in his brother, much less talking to him. He had gone to swap clothes from the washer to the dryer and in the two minutes that his back was turned, the little old lady had offered Sam not one, not two, but three candies from her purse. If that wasn't bad enough, she continued to slip him candies even after Dean made it perfectly clear that they weren't allowed to take candy from strangers and that Sam couldn't have too much sugar or he turned into an ornery, bratty bundle of energy. Sam, who trusted everyone because he had never been told about all of the dangers that existed on the fringes of everyday life, saw no problem taking candy from the sneaky old lady, which effectively derailed the rest of their plans. After the laundry was done, Sam wasn't interested in spaghettios at all because he had a tummyache from the nineteen pieces of candy he had been given by that old hag, and he was too hyper to settle down and bathe, much less sleep. Now it was 8:45 and no one had been bathed and Dad would be home in 15 minutes and Dean was going to be in a ton of trouble.

"Dean!" Sam called impatiently from the bathroom, "The water's cold!"

"If you would have gotten in an hour ago, it wouldn't be!" Dean scolded, "Now you have to deal."

When Dean entered the bathroom, Sam looked up at him with teary eyes, his bottom lip jutted out in a pout and his expression rivaling one of those pitiful animals at the animal shelter they had gone to look at a few times on their way home from school. Those eyes were going to be the death of him one day, Dean was sure of it.

"When you are bad, you have to deal with the consequences." Dean said firmly, doing a remarkably accurate impersonation of a lecturing parent, "You should have listened to me the first time."

Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say, because then the waterworks started. Within seconds, Dean found himself face to face with a sobbing, snotty mess of a (still naked) five year old brother. He sighed again, feeling pretty angry at the world in general. He hated his father for making him stay here and take care of Sam, he hated Sam for acting like a brat, he hated the old lady for giving Sam the candy that made him exceptionally bratty tonight and mostly, he hated himself for feeling this way about the situation. He knew Dad's job was important and hard and he was doing the best he could. He knew Sam couldn't help the sugar high he was experiencing (or now apparently coming down from) and that the old lady had meant well. But knowing all of that didn't help things at all when it was now 8:50 and Sam was still not in the bathtub and was instead getting snot and tears all over Dean's shirt as he clung to him.

"I wasn't trying to be bad." Sam wailed into Dean's shirt, "I'm sorry Dean!"

"I know." Dean sighed, patting Sam on the back and pleading, "Please stop crying, Sam. Please."

"You don't love me anymore!" Sam continued, as if Dean hadn't spoken at all, "You hate me and the water's cold and I'm hungry and you didn't feed me dinner and you are being mean to me and we didn't play at all today and Daddy's not home and it's dark and I'm scared and I'm thirsty and-"

"Sam! That's enough!" a booming voice came from the doorway. Sam instantly stopped whining and crying, though his was still loudly sniffling into Dean's side as he tensed in anticipation of a thorough round of discipline from their father. Dean, on the other hand, finally relaxed, knowing his shift of Sam-watching was over. He didn't even care that he was going to get his own punishment for not following the rules, it was nice to just have some backup now and not be responsible for this sniveling mess that had latched on to his side. Dean loved Sam, he really did, but it was a lot easier to be Sam's brother than it was to be Sam's caregiver.

"What is going on here?" John asked sternly, glancing from an exhausted Dean to a petulant Sam, "Didn't I give explicit instructions on what to do this evening, Dean? It's 8:55 pm on a school night, why is your brother still awake? And filthy?"

"I'm sorry, Daddy." Sam immediately replied, looking up at his father with a sad gaze, tears threatening to fall again but being held back with a great deal of determination, "I was being bad, not Dean. Don't make Dean in trouble."

"Get in the tub, Sam, and wash yourself. You have five minutes to finish and get dressed for bed." John instructed, dismissing the younger child in favor of getting to the bottom of the situation with the child he held accountable for the situation. He motioned for Dean to follow him and started to walk away, only to stop and return to the doorway when he realized neither boy had moved. "Do I need to have your ears checked, boys?"

"No, sir." Dean replied, pulling Sam's hands away from his shirt in an attempt to break free from his clingy second-shadow, "Let go, Sammy. Go take your bath."

"But-"

"Stop arguing and take your bath, Sam." John instructed once more, cutting off his youngest before he could start whining or complaining, "The clock is ticking."

Sam sniffed, turning away and staring at the tub with trepidation. After a few seconds of internally battling himself over whether he was going to get in or not, he timidly stuck his toe in, shivering slightly before actually climbing in. He looked back towards the door, but Dad and Dean were gone and he was alone. A tear fell down his cheek as he shivered again, the water chilly and wrong. He didn't like cold water; Dean usually made it just right and put bubbles and everything, but the bubbles had long since disappeared. He shouldn't have been so naughty, but he was feeling so silly and he didn't realize how carried away he had gotten. And now Dean was in trouble, too, because Dad's list didn't get finished. He scrubbed his arms, his stomach growling from hunger and reminding him that he hadn't eaten dinner. He didn't fail to realize this was also because he hadn't listened to his brother. No wonder everyone was mad at him.

He continued to cry as he washed his belly and legs, feeling cold and miserable and ashamed for his behavior. He didn't like being in trouble and he especially didn't like Dean being in trouble because of him. Dean was his best friend and the best big brother in the universe, there was nothing he couldn't do. And how did Sam repay him? By being a brat and not listening. It had been fun playing and being silly and loud, but it wasn't fun anymore now that he was cold, alone and in trouble. After he finished washing his body, he eyed the shampoo bottle warily. He hated getting water in his face and he never washed his own hair; Dean always helped to make sure he got it all and rinsed the soap out all the way. He looked in the direction of the door again, wondering if Dean and Dad were done talking. Not wanting to get in any further trouble, Sam whispered, "Dean?"

Of course, there was no answer, so he had to try louder, in his normal voice, "Dean?"

Sam strained his ears, trying to listen for his brother's voice, but all he heard was silence. Were they ignoring him because they were mad? Had they _left_? Shame rapidly transformed to terror and Sam burst into tears, covering his face with his hands and drawing up his knees to his chest in the cold water. What if they had decided he was _too_bad and they didn't want him anymore? What if they weren't just mad-what if they didn't even love him anymore? Worried that he would be alone forever, Sam yelled for his brother as loudly as possible, hoping that Dean would hear him and come back.

In the main room, John gestured for Dean to sit at the table. Dean did as instructed, his stomach twisted in knots because he wasn't sure what to expect. He always did what his Dad wanted him to do, things had never gotten as out of control as they did tonight. He really hoped he wouldn't get a spanking, and he shuddered at the thought.

"What happened, son?" John asked calmly, pouring himself a cup of coffee from the coffeepot that Dean had started earlier in anticipation of his arrival, "Did you run into trouble?"

Dean stared at his father, ashamed that he had been caught while Sam was in the middle of a tantrum, and shook his head slightly, "No, sir."

"Is that how the two of you normally behave when I'm not around?" John questioned, taking another sip from the coffee mug, "Is it a common occurrence for Sam to be so distraught?"

Dean shook his head again, "No, sir."

"So what was different about tonight?"

Dean watched his father for a moment, feeling like his Dad probably already knew. Dad always knew when they were misbehaving or when something wasn't right. It was like he was a mind-reader or like he had super powers. The nine year old leaned against the table, crossing his arms, and looking down nervously, "Sammy took candy from a stranger."

"Come again?"

"This old lady at the laundry room gave Sam some candies and I didn't realize it until he had already eaten them."

John looked furious, but held his tongue in hopes that his son would continue. When that didn't happen, he prompted, "And that's why Sam was pitching a fit, naked, an hour past his bedtime?"

"Well, yeah." Dean replied, glancing up at his father, then elaborated, "Sammy was really wound up from the candy, you know how he gets with sugar? We finished the laundry and came back to the room and he was bouncing off the walls and refusing to cooperate with anything I told him to do. I finally got him to go to the bath, but then he started having a huge tantrum over God-knows-what and that's when you came in."

John raked his fingers through his hair with a sigh, "I'm not happy that you couldn't maintain control tonight, Dean." Dean opened his mouth to defend himself, but John cut him off and continued, "But I am familiar with how difficult it is to wrangle a hyper five year old who has overindulged in sweets. Especially stubborn, hard-headed, silly boys like your brother."

Dean remained silent as John stopped talking to sip his coffee. Could he be getting off the hook? Was this going to actually work out without a grounding or running laps or a lengthy lecture? His eyes followed his father as he paced around the small kitchen area, unsure of what to expect because it was very rare that his father was this calm and patient when his rules had been broken.

"We're going to talk about this in the morning." John finally said, placing his empty mug in the sink, "The three of us: you, Sam and I. He needs to understand that you're in charge when I'm not here and that the rules are always in effect. He needs to understand that I gave you that power and that I am holding you responsible. He's a sensitive kid, if he thinks you're ass is on the line, he'll be more likely to do as he's told. Don't get me wrong, he won't just be thinking your ass will be on the line, it undoubtedly will be-"

John was interrupted by the sound of Sam's terrified shriek. In an instant, both of the older Winchesters had bolted towards the bathroom, Dean worried that Sam had hurt himself while John was more concerned that something had gotten in and was hurting his boy. Instead, they found the younger boy sobbing into his arms, calling desperately for his older brother.

"Sammy!" Dean shouted, skidding to a halt next to the tub and falling to his knees, "Sammy, what's wrong?"

"Dean!" Sam sobbed, flinging himself out of the water and onto his brother, holding on as tightly as he possibly could, "You're still here."

"Where else would I be, Stupid?" Dean asked, patting Sam's back while shooting their father a puzzled look, "What happened to you? What's wrong? Are you hurt?"

"I thought you were gone." Sam cried into Dean's shoulder, "You and Dad are mad at me and it was really quiet and I called for you and you didn't come."

John reached out, ruffling Sam's hair, and reassured, "We're never going to leave you, Sam. You never, ever have to worry about that." he glanced at Dean, commenting, "He's crashing hard. This is the second reason why I limit the sweets you boys are allowed to have."

John was about to hand Sam a towel when he realized Sam's hair still was dry. Putting his hand on Sam's shoulder, he pulled his younger child back and chastised, "Sammy, I specifically told you to take your bath quickly. You know you have to wash your hair too."

Sam shivered slightly, the cool air of the room making the cold water on his body feel even colder, and he looked at his father with a confused expression, "I can't wash my hair. Dean helps me."

"What?" John asked incredulously, turning his attention to Dean, "You've got to start making him do things for himself, son, it's the only way he'll learn to be independent and resourceful. We'll address this in the morning as well."

He handed Sam a towel, then reached into the tub to pull the drain. Flinching at the cold water, he gave another hard to look to his oldest son, but only commented, "Make sure he wears socks with his pajamas, the last thing we need is him getting sick from being too chilled."

"You don't get sick from being cold." Sam replied, unaware of the silent exchange happening between his strict father and his guilty brother. "Ms. Thatcher says that's a myth. A myth is a story that isn't true. She says-"

"Go get dressed, Sam." John instructed, too tired from the hunt he had been on to put up with a chatty child, especially one he had been expecting to find asleep already. He turned to his older child, "You too, Dean. We'll continue this in the morning."

"But Dad, I'm hungry." Sam complained, his stomach growling loudly as if to confirm the fact, "I didn't get dinner."

Dean scowled at his younger brother, reminding him, "I fixed you dinner, but you said your stomach hurt."

"But it doesn't anymore." Sam complained, "I can't sleep if I'm hungry."

John nudged both boys in the direction of the bed they shared, instructing, "Get dressed for bed. I'm going to go to the soda machine near the lobby, and when I get back you better both be asleep, understood?"

"Yes, sir." the boys responded in unison. While Dean pulled back the bigger duvet off of their bed, Sam put on his underwear, then his pajama shirt. As he tugged the shirt down, trying to get it past his head, he declared to his brother, "I get the bottom blanket tonight."

"No, you don't, you have to take the big one."

Sam finally managed to get his shirt completely on, and then turned to his big brother with a pout, "I don't like the big one, it's too big. I like the little blanket, it is softer."

"You'll get cold if you don't have the big blanket, Sam." Dean reasoned, "Put on your pants and don't forget socks."

After tossing the thicker of the two pieces of bedding to Sam's side of the bed, he tugged on the thinner blanket and sheet for himself. There was a time where the two had shared the blankets, but as Sam got older, he had turned into a human-octopus hybrid (well, at least that was Dean's philosophy, because there was no way a normal human could move that much in his sleep) and their Dad had gotten fed up with them fighting over who was stealing the covers every night.

"But then if I have the big blanket and you don't, won't you be cold?" Sam asked, trying to wrap his mind around how this was possibly fair. He wasn't surprised when Dean ignored him.

After getting the blankets situated, Dean turned his attention to Sam, who was hopping around on one foot, trying to get into the pants that were getting a bit too snug for his growing body, "Come on Sam, hurry up. Dad's going to be back any second. He didn't yell at us tonight, but if we still don't listen he might start."

As Sam finished getting his pants on and now fumbled with his socks, Dean reached into his nearby backpack, pulling out a granola bar and tossing it to his brother, "Here, eat this. Hurry, and don't tell Dad."

Sam graciously took the granola and ate it in just a few hasty bites, then climbed into bed next to Dean. He rolled onto his side, asking, "Did you get in trouble?"

"I didn't do what I was supposed to do." Dean replied, "What do you think he did? Give me a prize?"

"I'm really sorry." Sam apologized, reaching his hand towards his brother, "I didn't mean to be bad today."

Dean squeezed the offered hand, the annoyance he had felt all evening towards his brother gone now that the night was finally ending, "It's ok, Sammy. Tomorrow will be better."

"Do you still like me?"

"Don't ask dumb questions, Sam."

"But do you?"

"I won't if you don't go to sleep." Dean threatened, "Go to sleep."

Sam blinked tiredly at his older brother, who had his own eyes closed in an attempt to follow directions. He wasn't ready to sleep, he was still cold and wasn't quite convinced that Dean had forgiven him. He scooted closer to Dean, poking his arm, "Dean?"

"I'm sleeping, Sam."

"No you aren't." Sam retorted, "Do you?"

"Do I what, Sammy?" Dean asked, his tone impatient and tired. He opened his eyes and flinched, not expecting his brother's face to be mere inches from his own. The closer proximity of Sam's hand to his face led Dean to believe that if he hadn't opened his eyes when he did, Sam might have tried to force them open on his own. "Dude, personal space."

"Like me." Sam asked, still inching closer to his brother, "Do you still like me even though I was bad?"

"Of course I do, you idiot." Dean replied with a yawn. He reached over and tousled Sam's hair affectionately, "There's nothing you could ever do that would make me not like you anymore."

"What if I fed all of your clothes to a crocodile?"

"Who would even ever do something like that?" Dean asked curiously. Sometimes his kid brother came up with the strangest ideas. "You could kill someone and I'd still like you."

"Me too. You're my best friend."

"Of course I am, who else would want to be _your_friend?" Dean teased, nudging Sam back towards the right side of the bed and closing his eyes, "Now go to sleep, you little twerp. I'm tired, chasing after you all night."

Three minutes later, when John walked back into the room, he found Sam curled up into Dean's side, both boys peacefully asleep.

_TBC_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Summary: H/C. Sam breaks his arm, Dad's not around. Sam - 7 and Dean - 11. **_

There was a crash, a shriek, and then silence. If it weren't time for dinner, Dean wouldn't have even gone to see what the crash was about. As a general rule of thumb, if Sam was hurt there would be more than just a yell of surprise, there would be tears, yelling, or calling for his big brother or father. There was no reason to think this was anything major at all.

Except that it was.

Dean had been microwaving hot dogs and shoving them in cheap buns he had bought from the day-old-bread store on the way home from school. There was no fridge in their hotel room, so the agenda for the evening was for the two brothers to completely demolish a pack of hot dogs so they weren't accused of wasting by their father. Dean understood completely; money was tight and it was a treat to be able to eat something that wasn't in a can when they were stuck in hotel rooms. Personally, if he ever saw another can of ravoli or spaghettios, it would be too soon. He wasn't too concerned; Sam didn't usually eat much, but Dean was an ever-growing 11 year old and he could probably finish off the whole meal on his own if necessary.

He had just finished putting two on a plate for his brother and piling the other 8 onto his plate when he heard the crash. He waited for a second to see if Sam called for him, and when he couldn't hear any sounds of distress other than the initial yell at the moment of impact, he figured Sam had moved on to another activity. It wasn't uncommon for Sam to jump around and roughhouse while cooped up indoors; it was one of the many downsides of life on the road, especially when their Dad was out on a hunt and they weren't supposed to leave the room. Dean had wished there would be a playground or something at this motel, because it was summer and school was out, which meant there was nothing to break up the monotony of watching television and playing Monopoly for the twenty-third time that day.

"Sammy, come on, time to eat!" Dean called towards the bedroom, where Sam had been playing some game in which the beds were volcanoes and the floor was lava. The imagination on that kid was amazing at times, which he figured came from the books Sam sped through. "Rover is getting cold!"

Dean waited for Sam's response, knowing his brother hated it when he called hot dogs by a stereotypical dog name. Dean did it twice as often after Sam started complaining about it, knowing it grossed out his little brother to think of an actual dog on a bun, even though hot dogs weren't really dogs. It was so easy to rile the kid up, but it never got old. He frowned when Sam didn't say anything, calling out once more, "Sam? You okay?"

When he didn't get a response immediately, Dean dropped everything and ran towards the bedroom, remembering the thud and expecting the worst, to find his brother missing, kidnapped through a window, or perhaps unconscious or dead from a blow to the head from the table next to the bed. What he found, though, was something he couldn't even begin to have imagined.

Sam stood in the middle of the room, swaying ever so slightly with glazed eyes. Both arms were hanging limply at his sides, though Dean immediately noticed one was shorter than the other. He did a double-take, taking a closer look, and immediately had to swallow back bile that rose in his throat. Sam's arm was at an odd angle, his hand lifelessly hanging below the deformed limb.

"Oh my God." Dean said shakily, immediately searching the room for his shoes, "Don't look down, Sammy. It's okay, just look at me."

Sam remained silent, and less than fifteen seconds later, Dean had thrown on his shoes and scooped up his brother into his arms. He was incredibly glad Sam was small for his age, it was easier to hold on to him this way, but he knew that even if Sam had been bigger than him he would have found a way to make it work. He was talking to Sam the entire time, though he would later not be able to recall anything he said other than "Just don't Sam. Please. It's going to be okay, just don't look. "

There were little options for an 11 year old with no license, no car and no adult. Clearly, they'd have to go to the hospital, and clearly, the hospital would ask questions. He carried Sam along the row of cars in the parking lot, praying he would find one with the keys in the ignition. They couldn't go on the bus like this, nor did they have money for a cab or insurance for an ambulance. He had never driven on an actual street before, though his Dad did let him try once in a field, but there was no greater motivation than the need to get his brother to the hospital as quickly as possible.

At the end of the row he found a running car, and a quick survey of the area led him to believe the car belonged to one of the people staying upstairs, whose door was being propped open by a suitcase. Hurriedly sliding Sam in the front seat, Dean made the choice to boost the car. Really, there was no other option. There was only Sam, and Sam needed to get his arm fixed. Now.

"Don't look at it, Sammy." Dean instructed again, though Sam had made no move to do anything of the sort, "Just look at the road. We'll be there soon. It's going to be fine.'"

How they made it to the hospital without wrecking was a mystery to the eleven year old, but he thanked every deity he had ever heard of when they reached the emergency room entrance. Throwing the car into park, Dean ran around to Sam's side and threw the door open, scooping up his brother in his arms once more, "We're here, Sammy, we're going to get you fixed right up."

Dean's whole body shook as hurried to the reception window, and he blurted out, "My brother broke his arm. Please, you have to help him!"

One look at the the distraught boy and the receptionist was calling over the triage nurse to take Sam's information and start processing him. When the triage nurse got a look at the kid in the distraught boy's arms, they completely bypassed triage and went straight to the pediatric trauma unit.

"Can you tell me what happened?" one nurse asked Dean while another monitored Sam's vital signs.

Dean's voice shook and he tried to fight tears. He was brave, he could handle this. Crying was for babies and he wasn't a baby. "I was babysitting my brother. He was jumping on the bed, I wasn't looking, I don't know what happened."

The nurse tending to Sam stroked the younger boy's hair gently, "Sweetie, can you tell me what happened?"

Sam looked up at the adults, looking incredibly confused and out of place. He looked down at his arm and his eyes widened, his face paling rapidly. He opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a squeak, followed quickly by a whimper.

"His BP is 86/40, respiration rate 56, pulse 117." the nurse called out, while another copied down the information into his chart, "We need a portable x-ray machine, morphine!"

The nurse who was talking to Dean put her hand on his shoulder, drawing his attention from the chaos of the room. He looked pale and frightened; not just frightened, but downright traumatized, and she felt her heart breaking for him as well as his injured brother. It was hard enough to see someone you loved in an emergency situation, but it was even worse when you were the one in charge when the accident happened. "Hon, I need to ask you some questions. They're taking good care of your brother, I promise."

"Sam, his name is Sam."

"And yours?"

"Dean."

"How old are you, Dean?"

Thankfully, his father had prepared him for the possibility that one day these questions may be asked, so Dean was able to rattle off the answers without much thought. "Thirteen. He's seven."

"Where are your parents?"

"My Mom's dead, it's just my Dad and us. He went to help my uncle with something and he left me in charge." Dean's voice wavered even more than it already had been, and he added, "I was supposed to watch Sammy. Dad's going to be so mad."

"How can we reach your dad, Dean? We can't start treating Sam until we have consent from your dad." the nurse asked gently, not wanting to bombard the boy with questions but needing to know how to reach their father so they could get consent for treatment. While Sam didn't seem to be in any pain at the moment, the initial shock of the injury could wear off soon and then he'd be in a great deal of pain.

"I can call him." Dean replied, trying to figure out how he was going to pull this one off. His father was currently hunting a wendigo and was completely off the grid for a few days. He quickly weighed all of his options, and then asked, "Can I use the phone? I can reach him at my uncle's house."

"Of course," the nurse replied, relieved that the boy seemed to be more composed and coherent than his younger sibling. She had seen babysitters panicking much worse for much less severe injuries during her nine year history in the emergency department. "I'll show you how to dial."

The nurse led Dean to the phone near Sam's bed, and he quickly dialed Bobby's number, hoping the older man would be quick on the uptake.

"Hello."

"Uncle Bobby? It' s Dean."

"What's the matter, son?" Bobby asked, already starting to gather his keys and wallet. If Dean Winchester was calling him, you could bet your ass it was serious. "Where are you?"

Dean took a deep breath, knowing he had to phrase and time his conversation well to be realistic to the nurse while making Bobby understand what he needed, "I'm at the hospital, with Sam. He broke his arm…" he glanced at his brother's mangled arm and swallowed back rising bile, "...it's really bad. They need consent from Dad to do surgery. There's a nurse here, she wants to talk to Dad."

Bobby didn't miss a beat, immediately piecing together what was going on, and replied, "Gotcha. I'll talk to her and then I'm on my way."

"Thanks, Uncle Bobby." Dean replied, feeling like a weight was being lifted off his shoulders. He didn't expect Bobby to drop everything and come, but he had to admit it was a relief to know reinforcements were on the way. He was way out of his league with this. He handed the phone to the nurse, telling her, "He's putting my Dad on the line."

"Thanks, hon." the nurse replied, patting his shoulder again as she took the phone with her other hand. Two minutes later, they were faxing the consent form over so they could begin treating Sam's arm.

Not that they actually waited for the form. The minute the nurse hung up the phone with verbal consent, the room exploded with action. Dean stood with his back against the wall, wide-eyed as three nurses tended to his brother; one constantly updating his vitals and communicating with the doctor, one inserting and iv and the other was still trying to get basic information to complete his chart, which meant she would try to get information out of an unresponsive, pale and trembling Sam and then immediately follow up with a question for Dean, who wasn't faring much better.

"No, no allergies." Dean told her, barely paying attention to her questioning as he watched, with trepidation, as the other nurse tried, and failed, for the third time to insert Sam's IV. "He's 7 years old, May 2, 1983. He is 3'10, and weighs 43 pounds. No medical conditions."

Dean felt slightly dizzy and his stomach was doing somersaults as they wheeled in the portable x-ray machine. His eyes went to Sam's arm, which was being supported by rolled up towels. His fingers were turning blue and the bottom half of his arm had a sunken 'u' shape where it used to be straight.

"I need to go to the bathroom." Dean told the nurse, his voice urgent. He watched as the x-ray technician started to move Sam's arm and he knew that if he watched this for one more second he was going to lose his lunch all over the white tiled floors.

Seeing his distress, she led him away from the trauma room and to the bathrooms, which were only a few feet away. Squeezing his shoulder gently, she asked, "Are you okay?"

"No." Dean answered, pushing open the door and darting to the toilet. He threw up twice, his whole body trembling as the adrenaline started to wear off. Sam was hurt, Dad was going to kill him, and his baby brother's arm looked like a fake rubber limb used to scare people at Halloween. Not entirely sure he was done barfing, but knowing he had been away from his brother long enough, Dean quickly ran his hand under the sink faucet and rinsed out his mouth.

The curtain was now closed around Sam's cubicle, all that was visible were many, many pairs of shoes moving around in a frenzy. The nurse was talking, but he wasn't listening as his eyes wandered around the room, stopping on a brightly lit x-ray screen. He knew it was Sam's arm, there was no doubt about it-how many kids came in with grossly disfigured broken arms on a Wednesday afternoon? Both bones were separated midway up the forearm at what he would assume (based on his limited knowledge of angles, which they had just learned about in school the previous month) was a 45 degree angle. His brother's bones were separated. Detached. Actually broken.

While Dean had walked into the hospital knowing that his brother's arm was broken, it was different to see it in black and white backlit print. He glanced up at the nurse, anguish evident on his face and in his words, "Is he going to be alright?"

"Of course he is, honey." the nurse soothed, "They're setting his arm right now, that's why they've closed the curtains. It can be a little nerve wracking to see up close, but it should only take a few minutes and then you'll be able to go back and wait for him. He's going to be just fine, Dean. They gave him medicine to put him in a twilight sleep, which means Sam has a bit of sedation and pain medicine so he won't even remember this or feel anything. The doctor will fix his bones and put a soft cast, a splint, on it. Then next week, when the swelling goes down, he can come back and get his permanent cast."

"Do you think he's scared? Being alone?"

The nurse shook her head, squeezing Dean's shoulder for reassurance, "Not at all. Sometimes when bad injuries happen your body just shuts down for a few minutes while it processes everything. We think that's what allowed Sam to remain so calm; he wasn't feeling the pain from the injury, he had just sort of turned that part of his brain off for a bit. He probably doesn't even know you stepped out." she studied the young boy in front of her, sympathetic to his guilt and concern, "How about you, Dean? Can I get you something? Water? Soda?"

"I just want my brother." Dean replied dully, watching the feet beneath the curtain move.

It took just over forty-five minutes before Dean was allowed to go back into Sam's room, and when he arrived he found his little brother sleeping, his arm wrapped in thick white gauze covered with a brown bandage. He sighed in relief when he saw that the arm was, at least, straight and not wavy anymore. He pulled a chair up to Sam's bed, holding Sam's good hand and squeezing it lightly, "I'm so sorry I wasn't watching you closer, Sammy. I'm sorry you got hurt."

Tears fell from Dean's eyes and landed on the thin white blanket covering his younger brother, and despite his best efforts, Dean couldn't stop them. He didn't even know why he was crying; the crisis was over, Sam was fixed, Bobby was on his way. Still, he couldn't stop. He had been so scared and had felt so alone, and for the first time he really wondered if his dad was doing the right thing by leaving Sammy alone with him for sometimes weeks at a time. He had failed; he had let Sam down and he had let Dad down. At some point, he must have cried himself to sleep because the next thing he knew, he could hear Bobby and the nurse who had been so nice to him talking.

"He had limited sensation in his hands, but we think that was more related to shock than nerve damage. Time will tell, but our orthopedist was confident that he will regain most, if not all, range of motion in that arm."

"How severe was the break?"

"Sam had damage to both his radius and ulna bones. We opted to not surgically repair them, as most children's bones heal quickly, but it was a close call. I can show you his x-rays, if you wish. We set the arm and wrapped it for now, there's quite a bit of swelling, so we will schedule an appointment next week to get a hard cast on."

"What sort of precautions do we need to take until then?"

"He'll need to be very calm and still. We don't want those bones to move. We're going to give him a sling and he needs to wear it at all times for the first few weeks, but especially while he is still in a soft shell. No running, jumping, roughhousing with his brother, bike riding. Basically, we want him seated somewhere with his arm propped up, out of harms way and doing something that doesn't require a lot of effort or movement. After he gets the hard cast, his restrictions will change, but it's very important to make sure these bones don't shift right at first."

"Can I take him home?"

"As soon as he wakes. We put him under a light anesthetic to set his bones and he fell asleep afterwards, which is common for a child after a traumatic injury. Dean is with him, also asleep. The poor child was a wreck."

"He has always taken caring for his brother very seriously."

"Both of them will need some TLC. This was a very scary situation and it's bound to impact both of them. I wouldn't be surprised if there are nightmares for awhile, and likely a tendency to overprotect that area long after the break is healed. I've seen girls who were gymnasts come in with a severe break and never work up the courage to do tricks on the beam again, regardless of if they were at practice when they were injured. I've seen boys opt out of sports or even skateboarding and bike riding for years due to the fear of another injury. I'm sure it will

take quite a bit of time before Dean will let Sam out of his sight again when they're alone."

The curtain was pulled back and Bobby walked in, holding out his arms to Dean, who quickly darted from his chair to the adult he trusted just as much as he trusted his father.

"How you holding up, sport?"

Dean looked at his brother, then back at Bobby with an expression that clearly said 'how do you think?'.

"That good, huh?" Bobby said with a grin, patting the older boy on the back, "You did good, Dean. You got him here in one piece, I won't even ask how. You called for help when you needed it. Kids get hurt; I seem to remember a certain little boy falling in my salvage yard last year and needing a tetanus shot and 47 stitches from a piece of rusty metal. Do you blame me for that?"

"Of course not, it wasn't your fault. I wasn't doing what I was supposed to be doing."

"And is Sam supposed to jump on the bed?"

"No, sir."

"Then it's not your fault, by your own logic. Don't beat yourself up about it, the kid is fine."

"I guess you're right." Dean admitted, though he still wasn't fully convinced. Sam was his responsibility and he had gotten hurt under Dean's watch. How could it not be his fault?

Bobby put his hands on Dean's shoulders, squeezing them tightly, "We're going to wait for Sam to wake up, and then we're going to load him up and head towards my place. I know an orthopedist who will be able to tend to Sam while his arm heals and I left a message for your Daddy telling him I came to get you two."

"You don't have to do that."

"I want to." Bobby said firmly, closing the discussion. These boys had grown on his heart like a wild fungus and he didn't want them off alone at all, much less while one was recovering from a serious injury. If he could convince John to leave them with him all the time, he would do it in a heartbeat.

Dean watched Sam sleep for a few minutes, the silence in the room heavy and tense, and then asked quietly, "Do you think my dad will be pissed?"

"When is your dad not pissed about something?" Bobby quipped, hoping to elicit a smile from the boy. When it was clear that his joke had fallen flat, Bobby shook his head, "No, Dean, I don't think he'll be pissed. I think he'll be worried and upset that he wasn't here, and it may look like anger at first because that's John's default emotion, but I think he'd be proud of the way you handled things today."

"I didn't do anything special." Dean shrugged, "Just what had to be done."

"The fact that you don't see what a hero you are just proves that you are one." Bobby replied, patting Dean on the shoulder, "Why don't you try to wake sleeping beauty up? I'm sure you'll feel better when he can tell you himself that he's alright."

Dean moved back to where he had been sitting earlier and squeezed Sam's hand gently, afraid of hurting him, "Sammy, it's time to wake up."

Nothing happened, and Dean looked at Bobby, who nodded encouragingly. Turning back to Sam, Dean tapped him on the forehead, something Sam used to do to him when they were younger that had stuck around as a joke between the two. When that didn't work, Dean shook Sam's shoulder gently, not wanting to jostle him too much and aggravate his other arm, "Come on, Sammy, it's time to wake up. Uncle Bobby's here and we're going to go stay at his house for awhile, but only if you wake up."

Sam stirred slightly, but remained asleep. Bobby was about to tell Dean to let Sam rest a little longer when Dean leaned over, resting his head on Sam's stomach, looking utterly defeated. It had been a long day and an even longer night and he was just exhausted. He didn't blame Sam for wanting to stay asleep, he wanted to sleep too.

Bobby walked closer to the bed, patting the top of Sam's head gently, "You guys have been through a lot today, both of you. I'd say you both deserve an ice cream sundae."

"It's not going to work, Uncle Bobby." Dean muttered pessimistically. The running joke between the three of them was that Sam could hear the word 'ice cream' a mile away, since every time someone spoke of the cold treat, Sam seemed to magically appear and want some. Bobby called it 'ice cream radar' and made sure to keep a pint of mint chocolate chip in the freezer just so he could tease Sam with it every time the boys showed up.

To Dean's amazement, though, Sam moaned softly, first wiggling his toes and flexing his legs, then the fingers on his good arm, and finally he moved his good hand to push Dean's head off of his abdomen, "Get your giant head off me."

"Sammy!" Dean exclaimed, popping up quickly and moving closer to his brother, putting his hands on Sam's cheeks and asking, "Are you awake? Can you hear me?"

"I broke my arm, not my ears." Sam said lightly, though his voice was taking a slightly whiny tone that usually appeared when he was hurt, tired or sick. "Uncle Bobby? Why are you here? Is Daddy coming home?"

"He would if he could, Sammy." Bobby spoke up, saving Dean the trouble of coming up with a cover story, "He tried to get some time away from work but couldn't. He really wanted to be here with you, but since he couldn't, he asked me to bring you back to my house."

"Oh, okay." Sam replied dejectedly. He shifted slightly, gasping slightly as his arm moved, sending a jolt of pain from his hand to his shoulder, "My arm hurts."

"Well, if you would have kept it in one piece…" Dean teased, "This is why we can't have nice things." His humor didn't go far, as it didn't even elicit a smile from Sam, and he was about to tell his brother he'd find a nurse when Bobby spoke up with the same idea and stepped out of the room to do so.

"I'm sorry about your arm, Sam." Dean said quietly, reaching out to touch the fingers on Sam's injured arm but drawing back at the last second, not wanting to hurt his brother any more than he was already hurting. He was happy to see that Sam's fingers were no longer blue, and figured that was a good sign. "I'm going to make it up to you though; while you're healing I'll do anything you ask, I'll wait on you hand and foot."

"Why are you sorry? It wasn't your fault." Sam told his brother, "It was just an accident." he paused, then added hastily, "But you can still wait on me hand and foot, that sounds like fun."

Dean didn't respond, not wanting to be let off the hook so easily. He still felt guilty and he still wanted to make it up to his brother. He stood and walked to the edge of the curtain, looking around for Bobby, "What's taking him so long? If they know you're hurting, they should be coming faster."

"It's okay, Dean." Sam murmured tiredly, "They'll come when they can."

"It's not okay." Dean insisted, frustration evident in his voice, "You're just a little kid, they should be on top of things like this." He spotted Bobby and a nurse turning the corner and he deflated slightly, "Here they come."

"I want to go home." Sam whined softly, nearly asleep but still fidgeting restlessly like he had since he had woken up, "When can we leave?"

"Soon, Sammy." Dean soothed as the adults returned. He glared at the nurse as she slowly retrieved the a syringe and a vial of liquid from the pocket of her scrubs, wanting to snap at her to hurry but knowing Bobby would never stand for it. Instead, he settled for pointedly watching her every move while impatiently tapping his fingers against his leg. He hated to know his brother was hurting and if this lady went any slower, she'd be moving backwards.

"This should help with the pain," the nurse told Sam as she injected some medication into his IV, "We'll give this a little bit of time to kick in while I draw up your discharge papers. By the time everything's ready for you to leave, you should be feeling better."

"Just try to rest, Sam." Dean instructed, patting Sam's leg with his hand, "Do you need anything else?"

Sam shook his head slightly, his eyes drooping as he slurred, "No, 'm just tired."

Before Dean could even tell his brother that he should get some sleep, Sam drifted off, leaving Dean to resume his vigil by his brother's bed.

When the discharge papers finally arrived and the doctor had finished giving Bobby a laundry list of follow-up directions, Bobby gently shook the shoulder of the older boy, who had fallen asleep with his head on the edge of Sam's bed. It wasn't terribly late, but Bobby figured both boys deserved some rest after the ordeal they'd been through. Besides, it had given him a chance to try and track down John while Dean slept. He didn't want the hunter to arrive home, find the boys gone and think the worst. His attempts had been unsuccessful, so he would have to just leave a note and wait for John to contact him once he returned.

Dean blinked his eyes open wearily, and Bobby took no haste handing Dean the paperwork detailing Sam's plan of care and medication prescription before turning his attention to the young boy who would prove harder to rouse; the nurses had come in and disconnected his IV and he hadn't even twitched. It was probably for the best that the younger Winchester was drugged to the gills, it would make the trip much smoother if the child slept through it.

A week later, Bobby found himself sitting in a pediatric orthopedics clinic, waiting for the results of Sam's x-rays. Beside him sat Sam, who squirmed and fidgeted continuously even after Dean had threatened to superglue him to the chair. The last week had been long and stressful for all involved; Sam had grown tired of remaining calm and still after the first three hours of being awake the day after the accident, though Dean had yet to grow tired of nagging his brother to keep still and not do any more damage. Nagging had rapidly turned into screaming matches between the two boys when Sam had grown tired of TV and had sneakily found a way to escape his brother's watchful eye to play with the dog (and balance on a stack of tires, and ride a bike even with only one functioning arm). Dean had always taken his job as protector seriously, but this was a whole new level of paranoia and over-protection. In typical Sam fashion, the more Dean insisted he calm down, the more daring and antsy Sam became. Bobby, during all of this, had fantasized about duct taping both of their mouths shut and amputating the arm just to end the squabbling. He was eagerly anticipating this doctor's visit, when some of Sam's many restrictions would end.

"Can I go get some water?" Sam asked, swinging his legs wildly under the chair, "Or go get a magazine to look at?"

"No, just settle down." Dean snapped, "Think about what color cast you want."

"This is boring." Sam whined, "All I do is 'settle down' and sit and wait. I want to play."

Sam lengthed the 'a' in play so long that it wasn't just Dean who scolded, "Knock it off, Sam!"

Giving Bobby a scandalized look for taking Dean's side, Sam did stop whining and complaining, though his silent sulking was proving just as annoying to both of those accompanying him. "Can I at least-"

Sam was cut off by the nurse reading his name off of the list, and before Dean or Bobby could even rise, Sam had jumped up and dashed to the nurse, "That's me! I'm Sam!"

Once the others had caught up, the nurse led Sam to the casting room where the doctor was waiting. He smiled patiently at the hyper boy, "Why don't you go look at the bulletin board and pick what color you want your cast while I talk to your family?"

Sam darted towards the other side of the room, earning a collective gasp from the adults when he stumbled slightly, catching himself, thankfully, with his good arm. Once Sam was absorbed with the color swatches, the doctor turned to Bobby with a serious expression, "I hate to be the bearer of bad news."

"What is it, doc?" Bobby asked, coils of worry swirling in his gut, "Was there a problem with the x-rays?"

The doctor pointed to the x-rays sitting on the lighted wall, motioning to the injury site, "A break like Sam's is a very tricky break to treat," he began, talking to Bobby but also glancing at the older boy who was staring at him intently, hanging on every word, "It's not messy enough to require reconstruction, but it's not as simple as a fracture. I'm sure the hospital he was treated at was doing their best to avoid surgery, but simply casting a break like this is only effective roughly half the time."

"What do you mean?" Dean asked, beating Bobby to the question on both of their minds, "He needs surgery? You're going to cut on him?"

"If you will take a look at the x-ray from this afternoon, you can see that the bones are once again misaligned." The doctor explained, pointing to the film that showed the top of the bones was resting only partially on the bottom of the bones, "If it were a smaller discrepancy, I would say we could wait and see, that it wouldn't make that big of a difference because his bones will continue to grow and thicken."

"So you're going to what? Pin it?" Bobby asked, taking control of the conversation from Dean and looking expectantly at the doctor.

Flicking the light off on the x-ray screen, the doctor continued, "There are two options; we can try a closed reduction. That would involve putting Sam to sleep and setting his bones once more. It is less invasive than surgery, but he'll run the risk of the bones falling out of line again. As I said, it's a difficult break to treat. It would be outpatient day surgery, lasting roughly an hour, and then we'd continue to monitor his progress with weekly x-rays. The other option would be to open his arm up and insert a rod on the ulna at the site of the injury. Often, we won't have to pin both bones because having one in line will naturally line up the other. It would take one small incision near his wrist, and possibly another near his elbow depending on how much trouble we have lining everything up. It would likely be an outpatient surgery, though depending on how things go it may require an overnight stay. Afterwards, he'd likely be in a cast for 12-15 weeks while the bone heals."

"And he'd have a rod in his arm forever?" Dean questioned, not liking the idea of hardware inside of his brother's body.

The doctor shook his head, answering, "No, we'd remove it in about six months. Any longer, and the bone will grow around it, making it much harder to remove."

"So you're going to have to do surgery twice?" Bobby asked, not liking what he was hearing. There was no way he could play father to Sam and making a huge decision like this without talking to John, and John was still off the grid. A glance in Dean's direction told Bobby that Dean didn't like this any more than he did. "Can we have some time to think about it?"

"Of course, though I'd advise not to take too long to decide. I will cast Sam's arm today to prevent further damage and you can call us to schedule your next appointment once you've made your decision. The longer we wait, though, the harder it will be to correct this; once the bones start to fuse together, we could be looking at having to re-break his arm in order to align it properly." Both Bobby and Dean winced at the thought, but nodded their understanding.

Twenty minutes later, the trio walked out of the medical office, Sam eagerly jumping around with his bright orange cast while Dean chased after him with warnings to be careful and Bobby wondered how the hell he was going to track down John to make this decision. He wasn't the boys' father and it wasn't his place to make these decisions, but sometimes he felt like the boys' father didn't quite deserve it either if he wasn't there when they needed him. Bobby's musings were interrupted by Sam's voice shouting, "Dean! It's Dad! Dean! Look!"

Sure enough, pulling into the parking lot was the shiny black Impala carrying John Winchester. Bobby watched with an odd mixture of jealousy and relief as the car door swung open and John stepped out, greeting both of his boys with a hug.

"What happened, there, Tiger?" John asked Sam, who was holding up his cast for his father to see. Meeting his older son's gaze, he gave a smile and praised, "I heard you kept a cool head in a scary situation. You're turning into a fine young man."

Once it was clear that John wasn't going to rip him a new one for allowing Sam to get hurt, Dean beamed at the praise and turned to Bobby in delight, relieved that their surrogate uncle had been correct in his reassurance. Bobby returned the smile, his heart aching because he knew that with John back, they were going to pack up and leave and he wouldn't see them again until another emergency or far-off hunt appeared, and he'd be a liar if he said he wasn't going to miss them. He wasn't sure what, but there was something about those Winchester boys that just tugged at his heartstrings.


	3. Chapter 3

"What's wrong, son?" John questioned as he flipped open his knife, inspecting it closely before shutting it and dropping it into the bag he was packing. He gave Dean a quick once-over, knowing something was off but not quite about to put his finger on it. This was just another example of how the boys needed Mary in their lives; while he was observant and a quick-thinker, Mary had always had this intuitive sense about the boys. She probably wouldn't even have to ask, she'd already have the problem singled out and fixed before Dean himself even realized something was going on.

Dean shrugged, his gaze on the television, "Nothing, I'm fine."

"Look at me when I'm talking to you, son."

"Yes, sir." Dean replied, turning his head to meet his father's worried, but stern, gaze, "Sorry, sir."

"It's not like you to lounge around and watch tv all day." John commented as he zipped up his bag, "You and Sam fighting?"

"No, sir." Dean replied, barely suppressing a yawn, "I'm just tired, that's all."

John hummed in response, not really believing his son's reason for his abnormally quiet behavior but not having any proof to contradict Dean's explanation. He unzipped the bag with his clothing, poking around to make sure he had everything he needed before zipping it again and tossing it by the door.

"Where's your brother?" John asked, knowing his younger son wasn't in the hotel room but finding it odd that the two boys weren't off somewhere together. Dean didn't usually let Sam too far out of his sight, which John fully approved of, and if anyone was going to be laying around in front of the television, it was his ten year old over the fourteen year old. Dean usually tended to hover over John while he packed, wanting to know about what he was hunting and the plan of action even when he was going to be staying behind with his brother.

Dean shrugged, motioning vaguely towards the door, "There's a playground by the lobby, he went to check it out about half an hour ago."

"Alone?"

"I'm not going to go hang out at the baby playground." Dean retorted, then gestured towards the open window, "I left the window open; it's close enough to hear if he runs into any trouble."

John glanced out the window, and sure enough he was able to see the playground across the parking lot. He knew that if anyone could possibly get into trouble on a playground, it would be Sam; trouble found that kid like fleas found pups to feed on. He also knew that Dean wouldn't have left his brother unattended if the older boy had any indication that things would get hairy; Sam was, generally speaking, Dean's top priority. He looked back at Dean, who was once again staring at the television though John could see that Dean wasn't really absorbed in the programming; the teenager hadn't watched cartoons by choice since he was five years old. With a heavy sigh, worried that the answer may impede his upcoming hunt in some way, he asked, "Dean, seriously, what's going on with you?"

"Nothing, I'm fine." Dean replied, glancing in his father's direction and adding a belated, "Sir" at the end.

The more Dean insisted he was fine, the less John believed it, but it was easier to go along with the boy until he had proof to the contrary than it was to force the issue, so John really had no choice but to accept Dean's answer for truth. He could always blast the stubborn child later if it was, in fact, bullshit.

"The job is only a few hours away, I should be back tomorrow." John informed his son, sliding a knife into the strap at his ankle, "It seems fairly straightforward, I already know who we're dealing with and where the bones are buried from my recon earlier today. Do you kids have anything pressing this evening?"

"No, sir." Dean replied, shifting in his chair to face his father instead of having to continuously turn to face him, "Sammy had an essay due tomorrow for history, but he's been finished with it since the day it was assigned. I don't have any homework, we've both done our three miles for the day, we're caught up on laundry and supplies. I think we're good."

"That's my boy." John praised, "I want you both to stay inside once I leave, you know how sketchy this area gets after dark. I'll leave you guys with enough money for pizza, save your leftovers for breakfast in the morning. I should be back by the time you get home from school."

"Yes, sir." Dean agreed, though the rules weren't really new or unexpected; they often stayed in undesirable locations and rarely left after dark when their father wasn't around. It wasn't as if they had a reason to go anywhere, there were plenty of things that needed to be done inside of their room like cleaning the weapons, research, looking for the next hunt and, in Sam's case, homework. The only time they went out was for food, and that was typically only when their father was home, because when Dad was away they tried to save as much money as they could, just in case he didn't make it home on time.

John studied Dean once more, trying to decode the puzzle that was his oldest child. It was unusual for Dean to accept the rules without even asking or hinting that he wanted to tag along, lately Dean couldn't get enough of the hunt and while he never verbalized it, John knew he was itching to get out in the field instead of playing babysitter. It was also unusual for Dean to lay around watching tv under a blanket when he could be outside or even in the arcade. Both boys spent so much time cooped up indoors that they both took advantage of being outside whenever possible. With a frown, he asked again, "Are you sure everything is alright, son? Do you have a headache or something?"

"No, I'm fine, Dad. I'm just tired, I had a hard time sleeping last night. Sam kept kneeing me in the kidney." Dean gave his father a half-smile for reassurance before turning his attention back to the television.

John was going to question Dean further, his gut still telling him that something was wrong, but he was interrupted by Sam's appearance in the doorway. The ten year old was covered in dirt and the stench of sweaty kid filled John's nostrils, causing him to wrinkle his nose slightly, "Sammy, hit the shower."

"But Dad-"

"You're filthy." John interrupted, pointing to the bathroom, "Get cleaned up and we'll go over the rules before I leave."

"I already know the rules." Sam grumbled, dragging his feet as he slowly moved in the direction of the bathroom, "I don't need a shower, I'm not dirty."

"I can smell you, son." John replied sternly, rapidly losing patience for his younger child, "I'm fairly certain the people upstairs can smell you. Get yourself cleaned up."

"They can not." Sam huffed, going into the bathroom and not-so-gently closing the door.

A few moments later, the shower turned on and John exhaled, his mood lifting now that Sam was actually doing what he was told. In the past, Sam had been intent on making everyone around him happy. He did well in school, he helped out whenever he was asked to, he was polite and always used his manners. As he grew older, though, he had started questioning everyone and everything, a cynical side developing and growing stronger every day. While he was still polite and strived to be helpful and do well in everything he worked on, he also had a habit of asking (no, demanding) explanations and reasons for anything that John, and sometimes Dean, instructed him to do. While he loved both of his sons, John wished Sam could be a little more like Dean, who always did as he was told without question, who understood the importance of following an order and knew it could mean the difference between life and death.

"I don't understand how anyone wouldn't enjoy a hot shower." John commented, hoping to get a conversation started with Dean to reassure him that there was nothing wrong.

Dean shrugged, silent for a moment before adding, "You know how kids are."

John gave his son a wry smile, the comment sending a pang of remorse through his heart. His fourteen year old shouldn't be talking about his brother as if he was an adult and Sam was a child, they were both still children even though Dean had been treated as practically an adult for nearly ten years now. He often felt regret over the circumstances of their lives, the manner in which the boys were being raised, but there was nothing he could do about it, not while Mary's killer still remained at large.

"Do you guys need anything before I head out?"

"You aren't going to wait for Sam to get out?"

"Do you think he'd listen to what I had to say even if I did?"

Dean smirked, knowing his father had a point. He assumed it was a drawback to Sam's through-the-roof intelligence, but Sam absolutely loathed the "rules speech" that their father reiterated every time he left for a hunt. As far as Sam was concerned, he had already heard them all once and it didn't need repeating. Dean, on the other hand, didn't mind hearing them over and over again because it was reassuring to have his expectations laid out directly for him to follow, and because it was part of the pre-hunt routine. Sure, he knew the rules forwards, backwards and inside out, but it was proof and reassurance that even though their father wasn't going to be there, he still cared for their safety and well-being. John knew they both knew what was expected and required of them in his absence, but he also knew that boys would be boys and that if he didn't explicitly lay out each rule and regulation, there was a chance that one of them might do something they knew they weren't supposed to just because they hadn't been told not to. He had been their ages once, and remembered how easy it was to justify bad behavior and choices.

"Stay indoors, keep the salt lines down, keep the gun nearby at all times, shoot first and ask questions later." John instructed, sliding his wallet into his pocket and grabbing his keys off of the counter, "Go to bed on time and don't be late for school. Don't go overboard with the pizza, I'm only leaving twenty bucks, it's next to the coffeepot. Call me if there's any trouble, and then call Bobby or Jim, they're both only a few hours away. Make sure you lock up in the morning and leave the 'do not disturb' sign up so no one comes in while you guys are at school. Make sure the weapons are clean and pack everything up because we're probably going to head out of here tomorrow or the next day, unless you guys find another hunt in the area. Don't have any friends over, don't steal any cars unless it's a life or death emergency, and make sure the two of you work on your Latin for at least an hour tonight."

"Yes, sir." Dean responded, having heard this all before, "Be safe, Dad."

"You too, Son." John said, resting his hand on Dean's shoulder in a show of affection before slinging his bags over his shoulder and walking out the door. "Lock up behind me!" He instructed over his shoulder before closing the door. He tossed his bags into the backseat of the Impala, waiting until he saw Dean shut the window and close the curtains before he even turned on the car. He knew that if Dean had secured the window, he had probably secured the door as well, and with one last glance at the door he offered up a quick prayer that his boys would remain safe and backed out of the parking space. This wasn't the life he had wanted or planned for his family, but he had to admit that this would never work if his kids weren't as amazing as they were. Even on their worst days, Sam and Dean both were more responsible and better behaved than most entitled spoiled brats that he encountered.

Dean trudged to the window, shutting and latching it before drawing the curtains closed. He then moved to the door, turning the lock and fastening the chain to keep it shut. He was so exhausted, he wanted to do nothing more than just lay around and stare into space, but he knew that securing the room was one of the most important jobs that his father had entrusted him with; it was one of the key steps he could take to keep Sammy safe. With that in mind, he grabbed the salt and laid a thick line in front of the windows and the door.

He had just put the salt away when the bathroom door opened and Sam walked out, rubbing the towel against his hair in an attempt to dry it. Sam looked around, and then asked, "Where's Dad?"

"He just left." Dean replied, flopping down onto the bed their dad had been sleeping in while he was around. Now that Dad was gone, there was no need to sit on the uncomfortable chairs; he could now lounge in bed without a barrage of questions. Hands down, his favorite part of their dad leaving was getting his own bed. He didn't particularly mind sharing with Sam, it was better than sleeping on the floor, but his younger brother was incapable of staying still even in his sleep and it was nice to sleep without an elbow in your jaw.

Sam looked crestfallen for a brief moment, but quickly schooled his features into something more neutral. With a shrug, he tossed the towel onto his bed and muttered, "Figures, he sent me away just so he could leave."

"Don't be stupid, Sammy." Dean snapped, not in the mood for Sam's angst and drama at the moment, "He had to go, that's all. There's a spirit out there killing people, he has work to do."

Sam sighed, not bothering to respond, and walked to the kitchenette, where his backpack had been carelessly discarded when he had came home from school. He pulled out a thick novel, and then walked back to his bed. Clearly, from his snappy response, Dean was in a mood, which meant that it would be best to mind his own business instead of trying to engage his brother in conversation.

"Put on some socks." Dean told his brother as Sam moved around the room, "It's cold in here..not to mention that the floor is disgusting."

"It's not cold." Sam argued, though he did pull out a pair of socks from the duffel at the foot of his bed. He was still warm from the shower and from being outside, but Dean did have a point about the nasty floors. He didn't want to have to get a tetanus booster or to catch some mysterious disease from the stained, worn carpeting so it was easier to just do what Dean wanted.

"Shut up and do what you're told." Dean replied impatiently, "Do you have to argue about everything?"

"I did!" Sam snapped back, raising his voice slightly in defense. Yes, Dean was definitely in a mood. This was going to be a _great_ night. "You're being a jerk. What's your problem?"

"I don't have a problem, I'm just not in the mood." Dean grumbled, not wanting to fight and knowing that things would quickly escalate if they both continued snapping at each other. He rolled onto his side, facing away from his brother, in an attempt to end further conversation.

Sam frowned as he watched Dean all but dismiss him, but unable to let his brother have the last word, Sam sarcastically muttered, "Obviously." He scooted against the backboard, crossing his legs indian-style and stuffing a pillow behind his back so he would be comfortable while he read. He was six chapters in to 'Lord of the Rings' and felt like if Dean was going to sulk all night, he'd probably make good progress.

He opened the book to the page he had folded the corner down on, but instead of diving in like he normally would, Sam turned his head to stare at his brother's back for a few minutes. It wasn't exactly unusual for Dean to be moody lately, something about hormones according to Dad, but something just didn't feel right to him. Maybe it was the fact that Dean was laying in bed like he was about to fall asleep at only 5pm, or maybe it was because Dean had been snapping at him all afternoon regardless of the topic at hand, but for whatever reason, Sam had a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach that something was wrong.

With Dean, Sam couldn't just come out and ask his brother if something was wrong. Dean hated to be fussed over, to admit he needed help and to not have control of any given situation, especially in front of his little brother. Therefore, it took a little more prodding and a bit of clever and indirect word phrasing to discern a potential problem, and even then there was no guarantee that Sam would be successful in gaining any relevant knowledge. Putting his book down, Sam studied Dean for a few more minutes, trying to read his older brother's posture and body signals to get an idea where to start. Judging from the way he was acting lethargic, Sam could assume that Dean was either coming down with something or depressed about something. It would take more to distinguish between the two, though, and Sam felt a little rush of adrenaline at the idea of solving the puzzle; he always did enjoy a challenge.

"Hey, Dean?" Sam asked, standing up and moving to his brother's bed so he could see Dean's face, "Let's do something."

"Go away, Sam." Dean muttered, his voice muffled because his face was half-buried into his pillow.

Sam sat down next to Dean, nudging his shoulder gently, "Come on, Dean, I'm bored."

"Go away!"

Sam sighed, whining while carefully watching his brother's reaction, "There's nowhere to go, Dean. I want to play a game."

"How about the quiet game?" Dean asked, opening one eye to look at his younger brother, "Seriously, dude, leave me alone."

Sam pushed on Dean's shoulder until his brother had rolled onto his back, and then sat on his legs so Dean couldn't roll over again, asking, "What's your problem, Dean? Why are you moping around? Come play with me."

"My problem? A 70 pound growth on my leg." Dean grumbled, kicking his legs in an attempt to knock Sam off to the side, "I'm not moping around, I'm tired. I want you to go do something, and I want you to do it on the other side of the room."

Sam didn't move, and instead he stared at his brother and tried to put together the pieces of the puzzle. He didn't think Dean seemed sad or upset about anything-usually a brooding Dean was more likely to yell at him instead of just tell him off. It was possible that Dean was coming down with something, but he didn't look particularly pale. He intentionally fell off of Dean's legs and landed on his stomach next to Dean, his head resting on Dean's arm and used the opportunity to see if his big brother felt warm, which he wasn't. Dean didn't say anything else, and Sam rolled onto his side, his face just inches away from Dean's and asked, "What's for dinner?"

"Ugh, I'm supposed to feed you? Every day?" Dean joked, though Sam could tell the energy behind it just wasn't there. He motioned towards the kitchenette, "Dad left money, order a pizza."

"No, you do it." Sam automatically protested. He wondered why he was even arguing, since he didn't actually care who called, and wondered for just a split second if his Dad and brother were right when they accused him of being difficult just to be difficult. With an exaggerated sigh, he forced himself off the bed and said dramatically, "Well, if you're going to be so lazy, I guess I could save us both from starving to death."

Sam shuffled through several take-out menus that they had collected until he found the number for the local pizza place, and as he dialed the number he watched his brother again. Something was definitely wrong; even though Dean wasn't giving off huge red flags that something was bothering him, it was clear that he was just slightly off. He really hoped Dean wasn't getting sick, his brother was a bear to deal with when he was unwell and if Dad wasn't around it would be up to Sam to get Dean to take his medicine and rest and drink orange juice and all of the things his brother would not want to be doing at all.

"Pineapple and anchovies?" Sam asked his brother with a smile, waiting for a sarcastic comment from Dean. They played this game often, usually just to get a reaction from each other by coming up with the exact opposite of what the other one would want or need.

"Whatever you want, Sam."

Sam's smile slid to a frown, and now he knew for sure that something was wrong. The only two things (other than his family's safety) that Dean took seriously were food and girls, and for him to completely relinquish control of the dinner order was a clear sign that things were going to be going downhill. He just hoped that whenever it finally came to fruition Dad would be back to handle the fallout.

An hour later, Sam was eating a slice of cheese pizza on his bed, a book open in front of him though he had yet to look at it. Dean had fallen asleep before the pizza guy arrived, and when Sam tried to wake him up Dean hadn't been interested in dinner at all and instead had, rather forcefully, shoved Sam away and told him to go play in traffic. The pizza tasted like cardboard to the ten year old, his own body tense and achy just from worry. He tossed his half-eaten slice back into the box and stood, going to his older brother again and laying a hand on Dean's partially-obscured forehead. He didn't feel warm, but Sam wasn't fooled; he knew it was just a matter of time.

It was almost ten when Dean stirred, his eyes blinking open wearily. He rolled over, glancing at the clock then at Sam, who had quickly looked down at his book when he saw his brother waking. "Dude, you need to go to bed, it's a school night."

"One more chapter." Sam replied automatically, glancing at Dean out of the corner of his eye. Dean was definitely starting to look pale now, and it took all of Sam's self-restraint not to try and feel his brother's forehead again.

Dean sighed, then pushed himself to sit, "Okay, one more." he relented, stretching his arms over his head, "Did you eat?"

"Yeah. Pizza's in the fridge." Sam replied, though they both knew Dean wasn't actually going to eat any of it. Sure enough, Dean stumbled tiredly to the sink and filled up a cup with water, taking a few long sips before placing the cup down on the counter and going back to his bed. Unable to stop himself even though he knew what the answer would be, Sam asked quietly, "You okay, Dean?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." Dean answered, glancing in his brother's direction, "Don't worry about me."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure, Sammy. Wrap it up, it's time for bed."

Sam looked down at his book again, frowning slightly. He knew his brother was lying, but how could he help if Dean wouldn't admit anything was wrong? He didn't even know what sort of medicine to look for in the first aid kit. He knew that if their roles were reversed, Dean would know exactly what to do, Dean _always_ knew what to do and Sam never seemed to get it right even when he tried to do things just like his big brother.

Dean didn't mention bedtime again, and Sam gave up pretending to read after ten minutes had passed. Instead, both brothers sat in their beds in silence, one fretting silently while the other shifted uncomfortably. Fifteen minutes later, Sam wasn't even hiding the fact that he was staring at his brother, though Dean didn't seem to notice or care as he moved from his back to his side to sitting to his stomach to his other side.

"You sure you're okay?" Sam questioned, unable to keep the anxious concern from his voice, "Because-"

"This bed just sucks." Dean interrupted, his voice huskier than usual, "I can't get comfortable."

"You want to switch?" Sam offered kindly, not entirely believing that was what was bothering Dean but wanting to do something to help regardless. "I don't mind, really."

Dean didn't respond, and instead he rolled over and pulled the pillow over his face. After a few minutes, the shifting started to slow and within half an hour Sam was certain that Dean had finally fallen asleep. Relieved that everything was alright and now optimistic that he had been wrong about Dean having a problem, Sam was finally able to relax enough to fall asleep.

Dean awoke with a start, first realizing that his clothes were sticking to his skin and damp with sweat. _Gross_. His next thought was that he really felt terrible. Earlier he had felt tired and run down, but not actually unwell. Now, though, was a completely different story. He glanced at the other bed, where his kid brother was softly snoring, one leg and arm dangling off of the bed. He would have adjusted the kid if he wasn't worried he would lose yesterday's lunch if he tried to. Instead, he quietly slipped out of bed, one hand pressed against his churning stomach and the other reaching out to make sure he didn't bump into or knock anything over. He didn't want to disturb Sam, not only because the kid needed sleep but also because he didn't want his brother hovering over him if he did get sick.

He slipped into the bathroom and shut the door behind him with a soft click, then he turned the lights on. He winced, the light burning his eyes, but had little time to dwell on the brightness of the room as his mouth began to water in an ominous sign of what was to come. Dean slid to his knees with a groan, dreading what was going to happen. There were few things he disliked more in the world than throwing up, and he was hoping this overwhelming feeling of sickness would pass without actually cumulating to an actual event. He should have known, though, that the only luck a Winchester could count on was bad luck.

After the final waves of sickness finally passed, Dean spit several times into the toilet before flushing and then sank back to the ground, his back pressed against the wall, and ran his hands through his hair. He really felt terrible, and he was worried that this was just the beginning. His muscles ached from head to toe and his head was throbbing in time with his heart. He leaned his head back until it rested against the dingy wall, then closed his eyes and willed himself the strength to get up and move. His wishes were granted a few minutes later, though instead of having the strength to go back to bed, he found himself staring down into the stained, dirty toilet once more.

In the other room, Sam was jolted awake by a noise that he couldn't quite place. On alert, he laid perfectly still and tried to figure out what it was that had woken him and if it was a threat. When he didn't hear or feel an unwanted presence in the room, he turn looked over to his brother's bed, surprised to find it empty. Slowly, as he had just been pulled from a deep sleep, everything started to click in place and Sam realized where Dean was and, more importantly, what that noise was.

Sam was trying not to panic, but failing miserably. He didn't like to be around sick people, not only because he didn't want to catch whatever they had, but because he didn't know what to do or how to help and he didn't want to make a menace out of himself. His heart beat rapidly as he walked to the bathroom door and he grimaced at the painful sounds coming from the other side. He looked around the room helplessly, not knowing what to do or if he should do anything; nine chances out of ten, Dean wouldn't want him hovering anyway. His eyes landed on Dean's cup of water and Sam darted to the kitchenette, grabbing the water and hurrying back to the bathroom. Now, he just had to work up the nerve to enter.

Sam was embarrassed to realize his eyes were teary and he was showing definite signs of panic. He knew he had to calm himself down, especially since if he went in upset Dean would feel compelled to try and help, and the last thing his brother needed was to be worrying about him when he wasn't even the one who was sick and in need of assistance. Taking a deep breath, Sam forced himself to settle down and focus and timidly knocked on the door, "Dean?"

"Go away, Sam." Dean replied, his voice thin, "Go back to sleep."

Sam pushed the door open, ignoring Dean's order to go away, and handed the cup to his brother with a slightly trembling hand. He really hoped that Dean was done with the actual puking part of the illness because he didn't want to be around for that. At the same time, he felt like he owed it to his brother to stick by him, especially since Dean never once left his side any time Sam had been sick in the past. With that in mind, Sam forced himself to be brave and responsible and do what he could to help.

"Thanks." Dean replied hoarsely, taking the water out of Sam's hands and taking a tiny sip, "Really, though, you should go back to bed. It's late, Sammy."

Sam rocked back on his heels slightly, torn between the need to stay and be helpful and the desire to go back to bed, bury his head under the covers and pray that he'd wake up and everything would be normal again. He really didn't do well with sick people. Knowing he'd never forgive himself if he walked away, he forced himself to stop fidgeting and show Dean he could handle it. He was ten years old, after all, not a baby anymore. He leaned with his back against the sink, asking, "Is it just your stomach?"

"It's everything." Dean admitted, "My head, my stomach, my arms and legs and feet." he closed his eyes, enjoying the cool tile from the wall, and added, "I feel like crap, man."

Sam squatted down in front of his brother and put a cool hand to Dean's forehead like Dean had done for him countless times in the past, "You've got a fever, I think."

"Not surprised." Dean grumbled, letting his eyes close. He was starting to feel pretty sleepy but was afraid to leave in case he felt nauseous again. The last thing he wanted was for Sam to have to clean up a disgusting mess, "I'm so tired, I can't think straight."

"We need to get you back to bed." Sam told his brother, though he had no idea how he was actually going to pull that off, "You can't sleep here, you need to be in bed. And you also need some Tylenol."

Dean shook his head, "First off, I'm not taking anything. Secondly, I'm not leaving right here. Just go back to bed, please Sammy." Dean shuddered slightly, knowing he was about to start heaving again and wanting Sam gone for that bit.

"Come on." Sam urged, pulling on Dean's arm, "I know you feel lousy, but you will feel better when you're not on this gross floor."

Dean yanked his arm free from Sam's grasp and scrambled back to the toilet, coughing, gagging and sputtering but unable to bring anything else up, which just made his body try harder. Soon, he was able to add a scratchy and irritated throat to his list of ailments. He was mortified that he still had an audience for this, and to top it off he could feel Sam's hand on his back and hear his little brother whispering soothing and comforting words that he had learned from his big brother over the years. The kid's hands were shaking and if Dean didn't feel like he had just gotten run over twice by a truck he would have tried to soothe his little brother, but instead he just continued to pray to the porcelain throne and wish it would all end. When it was finally over, he bowed his head and just breathed for a few minutes, trying to gain control over his body as well as think of something to say that would make this seem not as bad to his clearly scared younger brother.

"I still think you'd be more comfortable in bed." Sam urged, "You don't have to go all the way to yours, you can sleep in mine, but you can't stay here all night. If you're worried you'll throw up again, I can get the trash can-"

"Stop mothering me." Dean snapped, pulling away from his brother, "Just go back to bed, I don't need you here."

Sam frowned, trying to figure out what he did wrong. Dean had always been very reassuring and comforting when he was sick and he couldn't imagine suffering alone in silence if their roles were reversed. He had brought water, he had patted Dean's shoulder and told him he'd be okay, he had given him a damp towel to clean up with. What more was there? He took a step back, wanting to follow his brother's wishes but also wanting to keep Dean from suffering alone. At a complete loss for what to do, Sam said quietly, "We need to take your temperature."

"_We_ don't have to do anything, Sam." Dean groaned, "I've got this. Go to bed."

"You don't have to do this alone." Sam protested, "I won't be able to sleep anyway knowing you're sick and alone."

"Stop being a girl, Sammy, and go to bed."

Lip quivering slightly (he felt so useless!) Sam nodded and turned, making the short trek to his bed and flopping down. Tears threatened to fall but he refused to let him; he wasn't a baby anymore and he didn't need to cry when things didn't go his way. He laid on his bed, listening for any sounds of distress. He wanted to make sure that if Dean did call for him, he'd be able to hear. Sleep beckoned him, trying to pull him under, but he resisted despite his burning eyes and weary muscles.

In the bathroom, Dean wobbily rose to his feet, glad that he no longer had an audience. His stomach felt marginally better, though the rest of him was declining rapidly. Once he made it to the doorway, he eyed his bed with a scowl, wishing it wasn't completely across the room. A quick look at Sam told him his brother wasn't asleep either, probably fretting about Dean's condition; the kid had always been really sensitive to the pain of others.

Making a decision, he stumbled to Sam's bed and laid down beside his little brother, "Mind if I stay with you?" He didn't necessarily want or need the company to sleep, but he knew it would make Sam relax and feel like he was helping, and that made it worth it.

"Sure!" Sam replied enthusiastically, absolutely beaming at his older brother now that he was being trusted to help, "Do you need anything?"

"Got everything I need right here." Dean replied with a yawn. He hadn't realized just how sleepy he was until he was horizontal, and he suddenly found it very hard to keep his eyes open. "Thanks for your help, Sam."

Though his eyes watered with emotion and fatigue, Sam flashed his older brother a genuine smile, then grabbed Dean's hand and squeezed it tightly. He was glad he had been able to do something to make Dean feel better, and if it meant laying here, still, forever he would be more than willing to stay for as long as it takes.

"You did good tonight, Sammy."

"I learned from the best."


	4. Chapter 4

Winchesters didn't cry. It was something that Sam's father had drilled in his head from a young age; the only time it was okay to cry is when someone close to you has died or you have had a limb ripped off with no anesthetic. Otherwise, whatever was happening probably wasn't worth shedding tears over. Of course, knowing the Winchester 'no cry' rule was far different than applying the rule to daily life; he had been reminded of it many times, and if his dad and brother came home right now, he'd be reminded yet again.

It had been a miserable day. It wasn't the fact that he was having a tough time with bullies at school or even the fact that he completely bombed his history test. Sure, that stuff sucked ass royally, but it wasn't worth crying over. No, he did not tear up when he saw a 25% on his exam, it was just because he had an eyelash in his eye. It wasn't even the fact that he felt like he hadn't eaten in a week, because it had really only been three days, despite what his stomach believed. Actually, remembering how hungry he was really did bring a tear to his eye, but it wasn't the real reason why he was feeling overly emotional. It wasn't the walk home in the rain, nor the realization when he finally made it home that his textbooks, notes and favorite novel had been ruined during the two mile trek through the downpour. No, the reason he was now sitting against the wall in his crappy hotel room, his knees drawn to his chest and his head buried into his not-so-pleasant smelling jeans that hadn't been washed all week, was because the room was empty. Still. He wasn't sure how much more he could take.

Dad and Dean had left 13 days ago, on a hunt that should have taken just the weekend. He had come home from school to find Dad sharpening his knife while Dean loaded up the car. He had half-expected them to order him to get his things and go with them, and was preparing himself for the argument that he had a 15 page report due in Literature due Monday, but instead his Dad only said that they got wind of a hunt a few hours away and they'd be back by the end of the weekend. His original intention of arguing over why he needed to stay evaporated and was replaced by a knee-jerk reaction of being upset they were leaving him behind. He knew it was ridiculous, because he didn't even want to go, but he wanted them to want him to go. No wonder his Dad said Sam stressed him out, sometimes it was hard for Sam to even follow his own logic. Dean had looked apologetic, at least, but had very little to say and within twenty minutes, Sam was left alone for the weekend with explicit instructions to stick around the hotel and not get into any trouble. That was a no-brainer for the thirteen year old, who was used to being home alone with Dean and already knew the rules, although this was only the second time he had been left completely alone. He didn't have any friends and he wasn't one to go to parties or socialize with classmates outside of school, so his plans for generally any weekend was to read, study or watch television.

Just like any other weekend, Sam spent Friday night making sure his assignment for Monday was completed to the best of his ability before turning on the television. There was nothing on other than cliche family-type comedies that Sam absolutely loathed, so he decided that he would just read instead. He had gotten through about forty pages of 'Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy' before his stomach started growling, reminding him that it was time for dinner. He glanced through his options, disappointed that Dean and Dad hadn't replenished their supplies before leaving but understanding that it was not unusual nor a big deal to have to live off of spaghettios and potato chips for a few days. He didn't really want spaghettios, though, so he settled on one of the two bags of microwave popcorn left over from the previous weekend, when Dean had rented the Die Hard movies for them to hang out and watch. Neither his father nor his brother would be pleased hearing that he had only eaten popcorn for dinner, but since they weren't there, he didn't really care. He read another seventy pages before falling asleep, book in hand.

The next day was much of the same. Sam had spent the morning flipping through channels on the television and then finished his book. He ate the last bag of popcorn for lunch, and then went to the library to return the book he had completed and to check out another. The library was a little further than his dad liked him to go, but he rationalized the decision by reminding himself that school was even further away and he went there and back alone all the time. Nothing eventful happened, and he returned to the boring hotel room with several thick novels to pass time. Spaghettios for dinner, an action movie on television and a hot shower later, Sam once again fell asleep reading.

By Sunday, Sam was ready for his family to return home. He enjoyed being on his own for short periods of time; privacy was a luxury rarely acquired by the Winchester boys, since the three of them were often crammed into one tiny room or crappy apartment. Even when Dad was gone, the small quarters could feel confining, as if the walls were closing in on them. When you were within steps of the same people day in and day out, whether it be during showering, eating, sleeping, doing homework, training, researching or hunting, sometimes you just needed some peace, quiet and solitude. On the other hand, he was so accustomed to having someone around all the time that after 1 or 2 days, the silence was deafening and the isolation was incredibly lonely. It was around that time that he was ready for Dean to come back, even if it meant bickering and teasing. Any longer than 2 days and Sam was even lonely for his dad, despite the tension that overwhelmed the room during most of their interactions. He had been disappointed when he had gone to bed and he hadn't heard from his family, but he wasn't necessarily worried since hunts rarely went exactly as planned.

By Tuesday afternoon, Sam had started feeling less lonely and more anxious because no one had checked in with him yet. His homework was postponed as he instead started searching news articles in the area that Dean had said they were heading towards, just to be sure that nothing bad had happened. He had forced down some spaghettios for dinner, not particularly hungry but trying to reassure himself that things were okay and attempting to carry on with life as usual.

When Friday morning came around and there was still no word from Dad or Dean, Sam had been wound up so tight that he was unable to keep down the last of the cereal he had forced himself to eat for breakfast and he couldn't summon the energy or desire to go to school. Instead, he spent the day calling every hospital, police department and morgue within a 2 hour radius from the hotel as well as the hunt. Worry consumed his every thought and action, and he just knew something was wrong. While it wasn't unusual for a hunt to go a day or two longer than planned, it wasn't as common for them to be gone an extra five days with no phone call.

When Sunday night came around again and there was still no word, Sam couldn't help but think that they had to be dead. He had spent the majority of the day in bed, staring at the ceiling and waiting for something; a sign, an omen, a phone call, the sound of the Impala pulling into the parking lot, anything. He had spent the money Dad had left behind for emergencies to secure the room for another week, deciding that a roof over his head was more important than food on the table, even though rations were running frighteningly low. He had been able to round up enough change from digging in the change return slot on the payphones in the area to wash a load of clothes, and now he had his clothing hanging from all of the doors and knobs in an attempt to let them dry, since he didn't have enough to do anything more than a light wash. If they were dead (and they had to be, because if they weren't they would have at least called by now) then he would have to find a job or some way to earn some money because there was no way he was going to turn himself in to child services and get put into the system. When it was dark out, he had finally forced himself to rise and put away his now-dry clothes and he stumbled into the kitchenette to fix himself some dinner. Looking at the remains of their last grocery run, he instead just filled up a cup with water three times, drinking the tepid liquid and pretending it was something substantial. He was down to a half-bag of stale chips and a can of spaghettios and he didn't know how long he'd have to make the two last. He wasn't really in the mood to eat anyway, worry gnawing at his gut.

Sometime in the wee hours of Monday morning, Sam was jolted out of a restless sleep by a vicious nightmare. He called out for Dean, unwilling to believe the images he had imagined of a werewolf ripping him to pieces and ripping out his heart. When the reality of the situation began to sink in and Sam remembered that Dean wasn't there, that he could have suffered a fate even worse than a werewolf, he barely had time to make it to the sink before the water made a reappearance, acidic and sour. As he had done dozens of times daily over the last week, he dialed Dean's cell phone number, barely able to keep his emotions together when it, again, went unanswered. He was unable to fall asleep again, plagued by his imagination's worst ammunition, and was barely able to force himself out of bed to go to school several hours later. Sitting in a classroom all day was the last thing he wanted to do, but it would do no good to draw attention to himself. By the time he got home Monday afternoon, he was starving, and he finished off the remaining food in the hotel room with a heavy heart. He had no money for even the most basic of rations, so unless his Dad and Dean showed up today, he'd have to figure something out for money soon. Worry consumed every ounce of energy in his body, and he spent the night laying awake in the dark room, unable to focus on homework or the television and trying unsuccessfully to think of anything other than his fear.

Tuesday and Wednesday passed by in a blur. Sam had gone through the motions of his normal routine, showing up at school and attending every class although he couldn't focus enough to participate, take notes or even hear what was being taught. Several people tried to talk to him throughout the day, but he barely heard them. He was hungry and exhausted, but he was unable to sleep for fear of what he would dream about and there was no food left. Not that he thought he'd be able to keep anything down, his whole body was tense with worry and fear. He had picked up the phone at least ten times to call Bobby and ask for help, but was never able to get through dialing the number because to verbalize the situation would make it far too real, and Sam wasn't ready to face the truth just yet.

Now it was Thursday. Sam had barely made it through the school day. He had failed a test, had been yelled at by two teachers for zoning out in class, had been sent to the nurse by a too-helpful teacher who knew this wasn't typical Sam behavior, had been teased by his classmates when he had nearly passed out from exhaustion while running laps in gym and had to plead with his gym teacher not to call home because he knew that no one would be there to answer. To top it off, they were having a terrible thunderstorm completely with heavy rain, wind, lightning and hail that he had been forced to walk home through, since no one was there to give him a ride. He was so hungry that he actually was starting to feel sick and every bone and muscle ached from fatigue. He didn't know how much more of this he could take, and he wanted nothing more than to see his dad and his brother, even if it meant they walked in on him sobbing like a baby.

There was a knock on the door, and Sam wearily pulled himself to his feet. He wasn't optimistic that it was his family; they would have had a key and let themselves in. The manager wouldn't be looking for more money until the next day, a fact that caused Sam's breath to catch with a wave of dizziness since he knew he had no way to pay, which meant by the time school ended tomorrow he'd be hungry, tired, alone and homeless. The knocking continued, growing more urgent, and Sam completely forgot every ounce of training his father had ever drilled into his head. Without taking any precautions, he wiped at his face and unlocked the door, swinging it open and immediately having to brace himself against the doorframe as equal parts relief, dread and fear surged within him, leaving him feeling weak and lightheaded.

"Woah, Sam-" Bobby said, taking the child by the arm to steady him when it seemed like the boy was going to fall over. He quickly studied the child in front of him, not liking what he saw, but didn't have time to fully dwell on the youngest Winchester's situation at the moment, "You okay?"

Sam opened his mouth to respond, but found he couldn't formulate anything to say so he closed it again, nodding mutely as he tried to make sense of what was happening. How did Bobby know where he was? Why couldn't it have been Dean at the door? What was happening?

"I tried calling you, but I guess you were at school." Bobby explained, walking into the hotel room and leading Sam to a chair, gently pushing the child down before walking through the room and gathering up all of the personal effects he could find, "We need to hit the road, your brother and your daddy are back at my place. They were pretty banged up in the hunt and I've been trying to figure out where you were; today has been the first day I could get a coherent answer out of either of them. I've been worried sick about you, it's not nice to scare an old man like that."

Sam opened and closed his mouth a few times, not trusting himself not to start crying again, and finally was able to whisper, "Are they okay?"

Bobby's heart broke for Sam, hearing the tears in the child's voice though Sam had yet to allow any to fall in the older hunter's presence. He stopped packing for a moment, putting his hands on Sam's shoulders and squeezing lightly, "They are going to be fine, Sam. They both had concussions, which are showing signs of improvement, and some cuts and bruises, but they are well on the road to recovery. Worried as hell about you, though, now that they are in their right minds."

Bobby watched as Sam absorbed the information and found himself incredibly relieved that he had his hands on the boy as Sam swayed alarmingly, his eyes flickering through several emotions before the child shut them tightly, exhaling with a shuddering breath. He could imagine what had been going through the thirteen year old's mind and and knew just from looking at the kid that the last few days had really taken their toll on him. Giving Sam's shoulders another reassuring squeeze, Bobby asked, "Want to help me get your stuff together so we can head out?"

"Yeah, sure." Sam breathed out, standing and immediately feeling woozy. His stomach twisted painfully and he grabbed the back of the chair he had been seated in, hoping his body wouldn't embarrassingly betray him in front of his surrogate uncle. He felt so relieved that his family was alright, but now that the fear and uncertainty was gone, he could feel the strain that missing meals and rest had put upon his body.

Bobby reached out, yet again, for the youngest Winchester, his forehead wrinkling in concern, "You sure you're okay, Sam?"

"Yeah." Sam breathed out quietly, though Bobby wasn't fooled for an instant. Before Sam even realized what was happening, Bobby had assumed much of the boy's small weight and frame, leading him towards the waiting car. Once seated, Bobby thrust a bottle of sports drink into Sam's hands, instructing him to drink. Sam woozily obeyed, feeling disconnected and fuzzy. He couldn't get his brain working enough to figure out what was wrong with him, but instinctively knew it would be better when he saw his brother with his own two eyes. He clumsily capped the now half-empty drink, then moments later summoned energy he didn't realize he had and pushed open the heavy car door, leaning out as the liquid fought its way back up his throat and onto the pavement.

Bobby returned to the car less than five minutes later, disappointed to see a puddle of vomit near the car and Sam leaning against the window with his eyes closed. For someone who wasn't at the hunt, the kid didn't look much better than his father and brother. He wanted to ask the boy what happened, but knew Sam wouldn't open up to him about that. The Winchesters all preferred to keep their pride undamaged and while Sam could be an open book at times, Bobby knew not to push. Instead, he started the car up, asking, "You okay to travel?"

"I...yeah, I sort of have to be. I need to see Dean." Sam replied tiredly, "I'm fine."

"Do you need anything? Some crackers or something?"

"I'm not sick." Sam answered, knowing that Bobby had seen the reappearance of the orange drink and not wanting the older man to worry, "I just drank too fast."

"Okay, then." Bobby replied, studying Sam carefully. He wasn't too terribly surprised when Sam's breathing quickly evened out, falling asleep almost as soon as they were on the road. They had a 4 hour drive ahead, and he hoped Sam would sleep for much of it because the kid looked terrible. He could only imagine how furious Dean was going to be when he saw the state his little brother was in.

A fellow hunter had stumbled upon John and Dean and had gotten them to Bobby to be patched up days before. Both were sporting serious concussions and were delirious with fever. The other hunter had returned to the woods to look for evidence of the youngest Winchester after Bobby had panicked at the kid's absence. They were out for days, sporting high fevers as Bobby battled infected wounds. John had awoken first but had been disoriented and confused. He couldn't remember what they had been hunting, much less where he had left his youngest. Dean had regained consciousness this morning, Sam's name on his lips. Within an hour, Bobby had gotten a friend to stay with the older two Winchesters while he went to gather Sammy. He hadn't expected to find Sam in this condition; just another reason to add to the lengthy list of why 13 was too young to be left alone for weeks at a time. He had been disturbed by the lack of food he had found in the hotel, knowing it was a real possibility that the kid had gone hungry at least part of the time his family was gone. He felt a pang of remorse, wishing Sam had called him for help; they could have prevented a lot of stress and worry all around if the boy had reached out to him. He couldn't really blame the kid, though, knowing how the boy had been raised. He just hoped that they'd never wind up in this situation again.

"How much longer?" Sam asked sleepily a good bit of time later, blinking open his eyes and glancing in Bobby's direction. He wanted, needed to see his dad and his brother and he honestly couldn't wait to get out of the car and away from Bobby. He loved the older hunter as if he were family, but it was incredibly embarrassing to be found by someone he cared about when he was a complete mess. Dean never fell apart like he had, even when Dad was gone for much longer than anticipated. Dean didn't cry because he was alone, he didn't panic when he ran out of money, he didn't let them starve for entire days. Life was never as miserable as this week had been when Dean was around. And as if being caught alone with telltale signs of crying wasn't bad enough, he'd nearly passed out and had puked and now Bobby kept giving him looks that made him feel like the world's lamest person. His brother and father had been hurt, hurt bad enough to be out of commission for days, and here he was falling apart because he missed a few meals and couldn't sleep at night. He was so pathetic.

Bobby looked from the road to Sam, giving him a sympathetic smile, "Another hour, maybe less if traffic is good. I'll bet you can't wait to see your brother and your daddy." He paused, then added, "But if you want to stop for a bathroom break or a snack or something, I'm sure a few minutes wouldn't make a huge difference."

Sam shook his head, then rested it against the window again. He let his eyes fall closed, not really wanting to go back to sleep but wanting to avoid a discussion at all costs. He knew Bobby wasn't stupid and would recognize a stall tactic a mile away, but he also knew that Bobby would respect his privacy if he made it perfectly clear that he wasn't up for discussing anything. His stomach growled with hunger, and he was contemplating asking to stop for some food, but even as the thought crossed his mind, he felt a wave of nausea pass through him. He shivered slightly, wondering what was up with his body. He had been hungry for days, starting long before the food actually ran out. He had been rationing and skipping meals and dreaming about buffets for over a week, and now that he had the opportunity to give his body what he so desperately wanted, he felt like he would vomit if he even tried to eat. Life officially sucked.

"Do you need anything?"

"You're acting like I was the one who was hurt on the job." Sam pointed out, eyes still closed, "I'm fine. I was on my own for two weeks, but it's not like I was alone on the street in some alley."

"You look far from fine." Bobby commented, "Your brother is going to have a fit when he gets a look at you. They may never leave you alone again."

"Good." Sam retorted, thinking that if they ever left him alone to hunt again, it would be too soon. It was inevitable, though, and he had already made up his mind that he was going to look for odd jobs or something to save up a little money in case this ever happened again.

The car was silent for a few minutes, until the car hit a patch of rough road. Hearing Sam gasp, Bobby glanced in the young boy's direction, not particularly liking the pallor of his skin. "You alright, Sam?"

"No." Sam replied quietly, the jarring motion from the road making him feel like he was seconds away from throwing up again. He would never be able to understand how his body could feel the urge to puke when he hadn't eaten in days. It made no sense. With a shuddering breath, he said quietly, "I don't feel good."

"Do you need me to pull over?" Bobby asked, though he was already gliding onto the shoulder by the time Sam responded with a tiny nod. He put the car in park and Sam scrambled out of the passenger seat and into the grass, doubled over with his hands on his knees. Bobby was torn on whether or not he should get out and approach the kid; Sam was still a kid and kids needed reassurance, but Sam also was giving off the vibe of an embarrassed teenager who wanted to be looked at like an adult instead of a child. He was saved from making that decision, though, when Sam straightened up and shakily walked back to the car.

Sam took a few steadying breaths before looking at Bobby with flushed cheeks, "False alarm, I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry." Bobby replied kindly, "Do you want some water? I think I have some dramamine somewhere if you're feeling a bit carsick."

Sam shook his head, rubbing his face with his hands in a manner that reminded the older hunter so much of the elder Winchester brother. Still controlling his breathing in a manner that told Bobby he still felt terrible, Sam managed to reply, "No, I'm not carsick. It'll be fine, I don't know what's wrong with me but it'll be okay. I'll manage."

"When's the last time you had a meal?" Bobby questioned, knowing that part of the reason the boy felt so terrible could be that he just hadn't had food in his system for awhile, which could really mess up the digestive tract, especially in a kid. "Would laying down help?"

Sam shrugged slightly, looking embarrassed but truthfully admitting, "It's been a few days. I don't think laying will help. Thanks, though."

"If things ever go south on you again, I want you to give me a call." Bobby said firmly, putting his hand on Sam's shoulder, "I don't care if it's 3 in the morning or if you just call because you're lonely. If there's ever anything going on that you need help with, I'm here for you. There's no need to be ashamed to ask for help."

"I…" Sam trailed off, tears stinging his eyes, "By the time I realized I needed help, things were so out of control that I didn't know how to ask. I'm sorry."

Bobby patted Sam's shoulder reassuringly before directing his attention back to the road, "You boys are like family to me, and I'd do anything for family. It doesn't have to be a big emergency to be worth calling me; we could have saved a lot of headache if you would have let me know you were having trouble or that your brother and dad were late coming home. It took days before I knew where you were, and it was terrifying. I had no way of knowing if you had been on the hunt with them and were hurt or worse, and then after some of my buddies scoured the woods with little luck, I was left trying to figure out where you guys had been holed up before the job. If something more serious than just a few injuries had occurred, I would have had no way of reaching you. That's something you may want to think about when your pride is getting in the way of your common sense, boy."

"Yes, sir. Thanks, Uncle Bobby." Sam replied, yawning and falling silent when he could think of nothing else to say. The week-plus of sleeplessness was taking a toll on his ability to think clearly and keep his eyes open, and before he even realized they were shut again, he was asleep.

The next thing Sam knew, he was laying somewhere soft and warm and a familiar hand was laying on top of his own. He slowly blinked open his eyes, surprised to find himself in the spare room at Bobby's since he had no recollection of arriving or getting out of the car. Beside the bed sat Dean, his face drawn and pale though he looked amazing to Sam just because it had been so long.

"Hey, kiddo." Dean said quietly, patting his little brother's hand, "How are you feeling?"

"Me?" Sam asked in a raspy voice, pushing himself up into a sitting position, "I'm fine. How are you? Bobby said you'd been hurt."

"I'm fine." Dean replied, exhaustion evident in his voice when he spoke though both boys knew without a doubt that he wasn't going to leave this spot until he was sure Sam was good. "I'm sorry we were gone so long, you must have been worried."

"A little." Sam answered, then smiled and added, "But I knew you'd be alright, you two are the best hunters in the world."

There was no way in hell that Sam was going to admit that he had feared the worst and that he had completely fallen apart at the seams right before Bobby showed up. He also had no intentions of fessing up that he had run out of food and money, not only because he didn't want to seem like a baby, but he also didn't want to Dean to feel guilty for something that was out of his control. Dean always gave Sam a hard time about carrying around unnecessary guilt, but Sam knew he had learned it honestly from his big brother, who seemed to take everything personally even if he didn't show it on the outside.

"Bobby said you weren't feeling too good." Dean countered, deciding it was time to cut the small talk and get down to the part he was the best at: being a big brother. "What's going on?"

Sam shrugged slightly, pushing himself up on his elbows and rolling his eyes when Dean shoved another pillow behind him, indicating silently that he wanted Sam laying back. "I don't know, I was nervous and I drank some Gatorade too fast; it made me throw up. I'm not sick or anything, just stupid."

Dean narrowed his gaze, not particularly believing Sam's story. His brother was pale with dark smudges under his eyes and his hands were trembling ever so slightly. He looked like he had been through the ringer as well, and he silently berated himself for the situation even though it had been no one's fault. He squeezed Sam's hand, asking, "Are you feeling better now?"

"Yes." Sam automatically replied, and then silently gauged his condition to see if he was being honest. He didn't feel queasy anymore and he certainly wasn't as tired, though the most notable change was that he felt more relaxed and at ease knowing that Dean was beside him, alive and mending. "Really, Dean, I'm okay."

Dean studied his brother carefully, still not buying Sam's story but not really being able to pinpoint why. Deciding to give him the benefit of the doubt, for now, Dean asked, "Are you feeling up to going downstairs for a bit? I could use a snack and I know Dad would like to see you and make sure you're okay with his own eyes."

"Sure." Sam replied, sitting up and swatting away Dean's hand when his older brother had reached out for him, "Dude, relax."

"I just want to be sure you're alright, man." Dean countered, "It's been two weeks since I've laid eyes on you, since I've talked to you. Anything could have happened in two weeks."

Sam grinned, feeling the sentiment behind the words and knowing all too well what Dean meant. They were never apart for long, and even when Sam had to stay behind so Dean could go on a hunt, they talked often. The only time they had really been apart for an extended period of time was the previous spring when Sam had been shipped off to Bobby's for a few months while Dean and Dad wrapped up a hunt. That had been different, because he had been with Bobby and Bobby had make sure he was well-cared for and kept so busy that he didn't even notice the time passing. He had never been completely alone and separated from everyone he knew and could trust for such a long time, and he felt just as unenthused about it as his big brother. It was nice to know, however, that Dean hated it as much as he did.

"I'm good, Dean. I'm just glad you and Dad are okay."

Shrugging off Dean's helpful hand, Sam pushed himself to his feet and was relieved when the world didn't spin around him as it had earlier. He supposed the sleep had done him some well, and was happy that he hadn't whined to Dean about how bad it had been while they were away. It looked as if everything would resolve itself on its own and he would never have to see that guilty look that Dean adopted when he felt like it was on his head that something hadn't worked out quite right.

"He's a bit banged up, Sammy." Dean warned, standing shoulder to shoulder to his brother as they walked down the stairs, "So don't be scared. He looks like hell, but he's going to be fine."

The first thing Sam thought when he walked up to the couch where their father was resting e was that Dean was a friggin' liar. 'Banged up' didn't even come close to describing their father's condition. John's head was wrapped in gauze, blood soaking through in some parts. His face was swollen, colored purple and blue in most areas but completely black in others. The swollen skin had stretched out cuts and scrapes, making it seem as if his face was simply about to rip open. Blood and dirt were still caked in his hair, as if everything else had been too serious to even bother with the most basic of non-life-threatening hygiene. Sam's stomach turned painfully when he realized that the injuries probably _were_ too serious to bother with washing John's hair. His arm was in a sling, just his hand visible between the fabric of the sling and the thick brown and white bandages that stabilized the injured limb. His hand, though, told Sam everything he needed to know about the injury; his fingers and the top of his hand were as bruised and swollen as his face, which meant that they were probably looking at a fracture or worse. The other arm was covered with a blanket, but Sam could see the tubing running out from underneath the blanket, connecting it to a nearby IV line.

Sam took a step back, bumping into Dean who had reached out to steady him. It was only then that he realized he was shaking. Not just trembling, but actually shaking from head to toe. He felt lightheaded and disconnected again, bile burning his throat. What if their dad died? What would happen to him? To Dean? What had happened to them? How could someone look so terrible and still be alive? Why hadn't they gone to a hospital? He was vaguely aware of Dean turning him around and pulling him in for a tight hug. Sam buried his head into Dean's shirt, soothed by his brother's heartbeat and the comfort he was providing, but was still unable to stop the tears from working their way out. He could hear Dean whispering something to him, but he couldn't make out exactly what his brother was whispering over the blood rushing through his ears and the pounding in his head.

As sobs tore through his brother's small frame, Dean just held on tighter, trying to anchor him. He hadn't reacted much better the first time had had seen his father's condition, but it really did look worse than it actually was. He had tried telling that to Sam, but his words fell on deaf ears judging by Sam's inability to calm down. He patted Sam's back gently, giving up on verbal reassurance and just waiting for Sam to finish crying it out. He knew that sometimes he just had to let the kid get it out of his system, and there would be plenty of time for reassurances once Sam had moved past hysterics and was ready to listen to the rest of the details. Several minutes passed, and Dean was just about to pull away when Sam made a hiccupping sound that he had long ago associated with his little brother crying to the point of making himself sick. It had been years since Sam had been worked up enough to get to this point, but Dean wasn't about to let this get any more out of control than it already was.

"Sammy, stop crying." Dean commanded, his voice firm yet calm, "Seriously, dude, if you keep it up you're going to puke on me and that will get your ass kicked."

For a few moments, nothing changed and Dean's grip on his brother tightened, "Sam, you need to listen to me now."

"I can't stop." Sam groaned, his breath hitching between each word as he tried unsuccessfully to gain control of his emotions, "I'm trying...I just can't...I'm sorry, Dean."

Dean pulled back, putting his hands on his brother's shoulders and squeezing them tightly, "It's all going to be okay, he's going to be fine. I told you, it looks worse than it is. You need tolcalm down though, you-"

Dean was cut off by Sam lurching forward, gagging and retching through his still-uncontrollable sobs. Dean reacted quickly, from years of experience, and quickly spun his brother around, pressing his own hand against Sam's mouth and propelling both of them towards the nearby bathroom. He maneuvered his younger brother into a kneeling position in front of the toilet before removing his hand, wincing as the kid continued to dry heave. He was partly relieved that Sam didn't appear to have anything on his stomach, because if he had the situation wouldn't have gone as flawlessly as it had, but he also knew that this was bound to be painful and the last thing he wanted to do was see his brother in pain. He rubbed between Sam's shoulder blades gently, coaxing him to calm down. Just when he thought he'd have to taking Sam by the arms and shaking him senseless until he started listening, Sam went silent and sank back against his brother, his eyes closing. He continued to take in shuddering breaths, but it was clear to Dean that Sam was now at least making progress in his effort to calm down.

They sat on the floor for a few minutes in silence, Dean waiting until Sam's breathing evened out to ask, "Better?"

"I'm sorry." Sam whispered, pulling away from Dean and rising shakily to his feet, "I don't know what's wrong with me."

"You've had a long and stressful couple of weeks." Dean retorted, standing and stretching slightly before asking, "Do you want to lie down again?"

"No, I want to talk to Dad." Sam replied, his cheeks tingeing pink at Dean's incredulous look, "I promise I won't fall apart this time. I just want to talk to him, to make sure he's okay."

"Yeah, I get it. I'm sure he would like the same from you, he has been asking about you." Dean told his brother, "And honestly, I don't know if he slept through everything that just happened, but if he didn't, he's going to probably want to make sure you're alright. Are you sure you're up for it?"

"I'm not a baby, Dean."

"You've got snot on your shirt, just like a baby." Dean retorted, smirking and nudging Sam's shoulder with his own, "You sure you're good?"

Sam nodded, a slight smile on his face from his brother's teasing, and walked back towards the living room. It was terrifying to see his father in such bad shape, but he was determined to not freak out this time. It was embarrassing enough that it had happened once, he wasn't going to give his brother more ammunition to call him a girl or a baby by panicking again. Now that he knew what to expect, seeing his Dad for a second time wasn't as bad. It still made his stomach clench in worry and his head feel slightly disconnected and woozy, but he was able to maintain control of himself as he took a few tentative steps towards his father.

"D-Dad?" Sam asked, reaching out and gently laying his hand on his father's abdomen, "Are you awake?"

John was still and silent for a few moments, but just as Sam was about to reach out again his eyes slowly opened, a pained expression on his face. "Sammy?" he croaked, his voice sounding strained and filled with pain, "Is that you, son?"

"Yeah, Dad, it's me." Sam quietly responded, "How are you feeling?"

"High as a kite." John said with as much of a grin as he could manage with his injuries, "Your uncle Bobby has been keeping me well-medicated. I'll be good as new in no time at all." He fell silent, taking in his son's appearance through hazy vision, "How about you? Did you run into any trouble while we were gone?"

"No, sir." Sam said quietly, trying to smile back at his father but failing completely, "It was fine."'

"You look like shit." John remarked, not bothering with small talk or the pleasantries that Sam was trying to get by with. He glanced over at Dean, asking, "How long were we gone for, again?"

"Two weeks, Dad." Dean replied, his tone suggesting to Sam that he had answered this question more than once already, even though he didn't seem annoyed or concerned. "Uncle Bobby went and picked up Sam this morning, remember?"

"I guess." John retorted, though the details of everything that had happened were fuzzy and scattered at best. "Did you have any trouble while we were gone?"

Sam frowned, glancing quickly at Dean with a concerned expression. His father had literally just asked him this question, had he already forgotten? Dean's hand found its way to Sam's shoulder and he squeezed gently in an attempt to be reassuring. As Sam's brain worked through what he knew, he came to the realization that his dad probably had a head injury, explaining the memory loss. Trying not to panic, like he had indicated to his brother he would, he told his Dad, "No, everything was fine while you were gone. I'm just happy you two are okay."

"Did you have enough money? Enough food?" John pressed, finding his youngest child's pale face and nervous behavior concerning and wanting to get to the root of it, "Leave the salt down?"

Sam nodded, "I left the salt down. You guys left food, remember? I used the money to pay the rent for the second week. It all worked out."

Dean's own gaze narrowed as he listened to Sam's story, and he repeated, "You used the money to pay for the rent."

"How else would I be allowed to stay there?"

"No, you did good." Dean praised, glad that Sam had apparently saved the funds to keep a roof over his head. Things would have gone much differently if his brother had found himself having to live on the street until someone came back for him. "I'm just trying to remember how much we left you with."

"Just enough for the rent." Sam replied with a scowl, remembering how disheartening it had been to know he couldn't buy any food when he was so incredibly hungry. While he didn't want his brother and dad to feel guilty for getting hurt and being away longer, he also wasn't thrilled with the fact that they had left him with minimal funds and no emergency reserves.

John's frowned deepened as he realized what Sam wasn't saying, that after rent he had been completely broke. He had remembered what they had left the kid with; they had decided against a grocery run because of time constraints and had reassured themselves that Sam had enough to get through the weekend. If there had been no money, then it was very likely that the kid had gone hungry for awhile. It always sent a pang of remorse through him when he realized his kids had to miss a meal or two, but this time he was pretty sure it had been more than just a handful of meals. He felt a surge of remorse wash over him, though there was also a fair bit of pride he was feeling towards his youngest. He often felt like Dean babied the younger boy, but it was impressive that Sam had dealt with the situation like a man in the absence of both himself and Dean.

"Dean, go fix your brother a sandwich." John instructed, wanting to do or say more but not knowing how to do so without making Dean feel guilty or Sam feel put on the spot. It was easier to just fix the situation now than to try and amend for the past, and he knew he made the right choice when Sam flashed him a grateful smile. He was pretty sure the kid had no intention of telling his overprotective big brother that he had gone hungry.

"Sure. Do you want anything, Dad?"

"No, just get you and your brother fed." John replied, stifling a yawn. Once Dean was gone, John asked his youngest, "I'm sorry, Sammy. If I had any clue that things weren't going to be straightforward, I would have done things differently."

"It's okay, Dad." Sam replied, tiredly but honestly. It was over now, and things were going to go back to normal, at least as normal as they could be in their lives. He had his dad and Dean back, they were safe at Bobby's, and he knew that it would be a long while before Dad took Dean away again for a weekend trip. While just three weeks ago, Sam would have taken it as a sign that his father didn't trust him or even like him as much as his big brother, now he only felt relief that, at least for now, he didn't have to worry about anything, because things never got that bad when Dean was home with him. He looked towards the kitchen when Dean called out that their food was ready, and Sam patted his father's leg gently as he turned to go towards the kitchen. He glanced back at his father, who was already starting to doze again, and said quietly, "I'm glad you're okay, Dad."

"I'm glad you're okay, too, son."

Sam knew not much had been said, but he couldn't help but feel like somewhere along the way, he had earned a little bit of respect from his father. With a smile on his face, he made his way to the kitchen, finally feeling at ease for the first time in many days.


	5. Chapter 5

_Thank you for all of the wonderful replies! I appreciate everyone's input! This chapter features a 16.5 year old Sam and a newly 21 year old Dean. Sam's bothered by something, and he's not talking about it. Can Dean figure out what's going on and fix it before Sam drifts too far away?_

_Thanks for reading!_

Dean wasn't sure what had happened while he was away, but he knew it had to be serious. When he walked out the door three weeks earlier, Sam was prepping for some stupid standardized test that the more academically minded high school students stressed over despite the protests of both himself and Dad that he didn't need a college prep exam when there was no chance in hell that he was going to ever go to college. In true Sam fashion, the more they told Sam he didn't need to worry about the exam, the more he obsessed over it and the more determined he became.

Their father had raised them to be codependent on each other, to isolate themselves from the rest of the world. Dean was okay with that; he remembered what it felt like to lose his mom and he would do anything in the world not to experience that again. He only had Dad and his brother, and he knew what had to be done to keep both of them safe. Sam, on the other hand, didn't remember how gut-wrenching and painful it was to lose someone he loved. He had just been a baby at the time of the fire and all he could think of was how unfair it felt that everyone else got to live a normal apple-pie life while he was stuck with a strict, over-protective father and a similarly over-protective and paranoid big brother. He knew about the horrors that existed in the night, but he didn't have the painful memories to really appreciate the importance of the hunt.

It was a vicious cycle; Sam would push against the life their father had molded for them, Dad would feel threatened by Sam's desire to change his world, and Dean would fight the panic that rose at the idea of things changing and try to mediate between them, feeling sympathetic for his brother but knowing their dad was right. The more Sam pushed, the more strict and angry Dad became, the more Dean would try to make Sam see where the older two were coming from, which made Sam push harder because he felt Dean was taking Dad's side. At the end of the day, Sam felt like no one was on his side and no one was listening to him, which made him become the poster boy for teenage angst. Dad, on the other hand, would drown his frustration and slipping control over the youngest in copious amounts of alcohol, which only made Sam want to get away more, causing more fighting between the two, and as a result, more drinking. Dean was left to try and pick up the pieces, knowing it was unfair to him to be between the two when they were constantly at odds with each other, but unwilling to put his foot down because he knew things were just hanging on by a thread and didn't want to be responsible for either his father or his brother snapping and doing something rash.

When he returned from the hunt he had gone on with Caleb and Joshua, two of the family's hunting buddies, he could immediately sense a shift in the dynamics of their family. The euphoria of his first hunt without Dad, his "welcome to fully-grown-manhood 21st birthday spirit-killing extravaganza" as Caleb had referred the trip, vanished immediately as soon as he walked through the door of their crappy apartment. There were no signs of distress, no visible changes that would put Dean on alert, just a vague feeling that something was not right. Dean had learned long ago to trust his intuition, so if his gut said something was wrong, something had to be wrong.

"Dad? Sammy?" He called out, dropping his duffel on the floor next to the door and listening for a response. The apartment wasn't big, if anyone was home they would definitely hear him calling. "Anyone here?"

A rustling sound from the kitchen told Dean that he wasn't alone, and with one hand on his gun in case it wasn't his father or his brother, he crept in that direction, swinging open the door with a mixture of apprehension and euphoric adrenaline that flowed through his veins when in a dangerous situation. The start of his hunting-high was abruptly dispelled when he spotted his father at the stove, phone to his ear while he stirred some foul-smelling concoction in a large silver pot.

Knowing not to interrupt his dad while on the phone, Dean gave a slight wave and wandered to the stove, taking a peek at the nauseating mixture that was stinking up the room. He made a face, recognizing a weak attempt a chili, and immediately started thinking of an excuse to get himself and his brother away from the apartment at dinner time. John Winchester was many things, but a good cook was not one of them. He could intimidate even the world's surliest man, he could wipe out any sort of monster like some sort of charged-up Superhero, but he was not Suzy Homemaker by any means. The man could hardly scramble eggs, a skill that Dean had mastered before Kindergarten, so Dean was fairly confident that whatever his father was preparing would be, at best, inedible. At worst, it would require hospitalization, as Dean knew from experience. He called it the 'egg salad incident' and refused to think about it as just the memory made his insides quiver.

"Thanks, Jim. I'll let you know." John said before hanging up his phone and turning to his oldest son. He looked at his son intently, from head to toe, silent before giving a nod of approval and asking levelly, "Had a good time?"

"The best." Dean replied with a grin. He really did have a great time with the two hunters, both of which were closer to his age than John's. It was empowering; instead of feeling like someone who needed supervision and having orders barked at him, he had been part of the planning and execution of every stage, treated like an equal among peers instead of just a kid. The strip club and bar scene afterwards had just been icing on the cake. "How did everything go here?"

Dean watched his dad carefully, waiting for signs of misdirection or blatant lies. He hadn't forgotten the general sense of unease he felt when he had returned home, though things seemed to be fine at the moment. It wasn't that he didn't trust his dad, because he trusted his dad with every fiber of his being, but he didn't necessarily trust his dad and his brother alone together. Dad thought he and Sam were complete opposites, but Dean secretly felt that they weren't opposites as much as they were too much alike. Dad was focused, driven and stubborn. Sam was focused, driven and stubborn. It was unfortunate that they weren't focused, driven and stubborn about the same issues, though, because if they were, things would probably be a lot different. Dean had watched as a remark as simple as "Pass the salt" started an argument that ended with Sam storming to his room and slamming the door hard enough for the glass in the windows to rattle and Dad storming off to a bar and coming him hours later so drunk that he could barely stand. Dean had watched as their father purposefully chose words that would cut Sam to the core during a heated debate, just as he watched his brother do exactly the same. He supposed that the one flaw in spending your entire lives isolated from society with only the same people surrounding you day in and day out was that they each knew each other's weaknesses, and when tensions ran particularly high, they used those weaknesses as ammunition. It wasn't just Dad or Sam who was guilty of that, Dean had also done the same more times than he cared to admit.

"Things were fine." John replied, wiping his hands on his jeans as after adding a handful of some sort of seasoning to the pot he was stirring, "The first few days were rough, you know how Sam can get, but we both agreed to keep our distance and the rest of the time flew by."

"You two agreed on something?" Dean questioned, raising an eyebrow in disbelief. He found that incredibly hard to believe, seeing as how if John said the grass was green, Sam would automatically say it was blue just to prove their father wrong. "Christo."

"Very funny, Dean." John replied dryly, "Believe it or not, Sam and I are capable of getting along. I've made it 16 and a half years without killing him, and believe me there's been times where it would have been justified, so it's not a stretch of the imagination to think that I was able to keep my cool for three weeks."

"I didn't say it was impossible; I'm just surprised. You two weren't on the best of terms when I left. I thought he'd drive you crazy while I was gone, that's all." He frowned, suddenly realizing his brother hadn't joined them and wondering where Sam was, "Speaking of Sammy, where is he? He knew I was coming home today."

"He's in his room." John replied, looking down at the chili cooking with concern, "I think this is going to burn if we don't eat it soon."

"Chili doesn't burn, Dad. It's too liquidy to burn."

"Maybe it needs more water." John contemplated aloud, taking a cup off the counter and running it under the tap, "Do you still like it spicy?"

"Yes, use a lot of spices." Dean automatically replied, knowing that the pepper would mask the taste if he actually had to eat any of the greyish slop his father was preparing. If nothing else, it would possibly give it the right coloring and he could pretend it was real food. "How much longer until dinner?"

"It'll be ready soon." John replied, dumping in the water and stirring, still frowning at the mixture, "Why don't you tell Sam to wash up and come set the table? You get yourself unpacked and washed up too."

"Alright." Dean replied, standing up and giving one last disgusted look towards their dinner. He was pretty sure he still had some candy and ships stashed in his bag from the road, so at least he and Sam wouldn't go hungry if they couldn't bring themselves to eat that slop. "Need anything before I go?"

"No, son." John replied, looking like he wanted to say something else but was interrupted by his phone ringing again.

Shaking his head in amusement at his father's lack of culinary skills, Dean walked towards the bedroom he shared with Sam. It was unusual for Sam not to come greet him after he had been gone for so long, but he figured the bookworm must be really engrossed in his homework or something equally as nerdy. Just before he touched the doorknob, he froze, making a disgusted face as he remembered what he would have been doing alone in his bedroom at 16. He hesitated and knocked lightly, asking, "Sammy, you decent?" There was no answer, and Dean knocked again, calling out a little louder, "If I walk in and find you're, uh, doing the five-knuckle-shuffle in there, you're dead. There are certain things I can't unsee."

When Dean was still met with silence, he assumed it was safe to enter. He pushed the door open slowly, wanting to give Sam a few more seconds to get decent if he wasn't, and also not wanting to startle his brother if he had fallen asleep or something. He was surprised to find Sam sitting on his bed with his legs crossed, reading a Latin book that Dean recognized as one of Bobby's many tomes. Dumping his bag on the floor next to his bed, Dean asked, "What's up, Sammy? Didn't you hear me knocking?"

Sam glanced up, shrugging slightly and going back to his book without a second glance or remark. Dean frowned, the uneasy feeling he'd been met with upon his return home growing.

"What's with the silent treatment?"

Sam ignored him, though Dean could tell Sam was listening because his eyes were no longer moving as if he were reading. His younger brother shifted the tiniest bit, but did nothing to give away the situation to Dean's watchful eyes.

"Are you pissed at me for something?"

Sam looked up at his brother, staring at him with an intensity that was so unlike his younger brother that Dean took a step back out of reflex. Sam had always worn his heart on his sleeve, his eyes were always open and full of emotion, his body language always a reflection of his mood or thoughts. This Sam, though, was different. His eyes were intense and dark, but without the joy, sadness, anger or passion that Dean was accustomed to seeing. Dean's frown deepened and he fought the urge to fling some holy water at his sibling just to make sure there wasn't a supernatural reason for his odd behavior. Surely, though, Dad would know if Sam was possessed or not actually Sam.

"Are you sick? Physically unable to talk? Or are you just being a dick?" Dean snapped, his worry manifesting in a surge of anger at his brother's behavior. When Sam just ignored him and looked down at his book again, Dean growled, "Forget it. Dad wants you to set the table, he made chili."

Dean would have laughed at the look of horror that came over his brother's face if he wasn't so annoyed. Instead, he grabbed his clothes and headed towards the shower, slamming the door a little harder than necessary just out of irritation. Ten minutes later, he headed towards the kitchen, glancing in the bedroom to see if Sam had gone. Finding the room empty, book still open on the bed, he decided Sam must have done as he was told, which was almost as unusual as his sudden silent treatment.

"Oh, there he is." John said with a smile as Dean walked into the room. Dean couldn't help but feel a small surge of happiness and pride when he realized that his father's good mood was his doing; his Dad was practically beaming at him. It was nice to know he was missed while away. "We were waiting for you to start eating, son. Do you want some crackers to go with your chili?"

Dean was about to say no, but another glance at the sludge in his bowl reminded him that this wasn't "chili", persay, and he nodded, walking to a cabinet and grabbing a package of saltines before sitting in his chair. He glanced over at Sam out of pure habit, hoping that his brother's horrified and disgusted expression wasn't mirrored on his own face. While he knew this meal would be a disaster, he didn't want his Dad to feel bad. John rarely went through the effort to provide the "traditional family experience" and he didn't want to ruin it.

"Well, eat up boys." John said, grabbing a few crackers from the package and crumbling them up into his chili. "So, Dean, tell us about your hunt."

Dean latched on to the attempt at a conversation; anything that would keep him from having to choke down this meal was definitely worth it, "Well, we found out they tore down an old abandoned mental hospital to build a set of dorms for the girls dorms. You know how there had been six girls who were reported as having committed suicide? It turns out that there had actually been eleven overall since they opened the dorms up. We traced back the history and found there were a group of patients who had been tortured to death by another patient right before the hospital closed. It was pretty straightforward after that, but we had to drive forever to get all of the graves done; they weren't all locally buried. The girls were, well, they were pretty grateful for Caleb, Josh and I. If you know what I mean."

He glanced over at Sam, raising an eyebrow and trying to get a response from the kid he considered his best friend. He knew if anyone would appreciate the fact that a bunch of hot college chicks were into him, it would be Sam, but Sam instead just poked at his food, not even sparing Dean a glance. This had officially crossed the line from "odd" to "friggin' weird" and Dean wasn't quite sure how to react. He looked at their father, then nodded in Sam's direction with a questioning expression. John shrugged, but it was clear that the silence did not bother him at all.

"So you guys didn't have any trouble, then? Straightforward?" John further probed. He had spent the majority of the time Dean was away in town, working odd jobs to get them ahead financially and keeping his ear out in case the group of younger hunters ran into trouble. He hadn't come outright and said he was staying put because it was Dean's first time completely separated from the rest of the family on a hunt, but it was pretty obvious to everyone involved.

Dean shook his head, taking a swig from the beer his father had left by his spot on the table, "No, real open and shut. How about you guys? Anything interesting happen while I was away?"

Just as Dean asked the question, Sam had slowly and carefully brought up a spoonful of chili to his mouth, grimacing before actually attempting to eat it. Both Dean and John's attention were drawn to the younger boy when he started to choke on the concoction, sputtering and coughing before spitting the half-chewed food back into his bowl with a shudder. As soon as Sam had started coughing, Dean had moved to thump him on the back in an attempt to help the situation, earning an eye roll from their father, who was always under the impression that Dean babied Sam just a bit too much.

Sam pulled away from Dean and greedily gulped down his milk, finishing the glass faster than Dean had been polishing off shots during his absence. Sam looked down at his food in distaste, then looked at his father, silently asking for permission to leave. After a second, John nodded slightly and Sam rose, emptying his bowl into the trash and retreating to his room in silence. Dean watched the exchange with a confused and pained expression on his face, really not understanding what was going on. Sam was usually pretty chatty and John was not typically one who accepted silent questions and gave silent answers. Dean and Sam were often able to communicate with each other without really needing words, but neither of them were that in tune with their father. What had happened over the last three weeks?

Dean sat down, wearily looking at his bowl. He didn't think it would taste any better now that it was cooling, and a glance at his father told him that John felt the same way. Dean brought the spoon to his lips, and put the slightest bit on his tongue. He immediately gagged, putting the spoon down and taking another swig of his beer to wash the taste away. He had never put something so foul in his mouth before and was confident that he never wanted to again. He could imagine that a dead animal off the side of the road would taste better. Pushing his bowl away, he told his father, "I'm, uh, not very hungry. It's been a long trip, I think I'm going to catch some shut eye."

"It's 5:30 in the evening." John retorted, a smirk on his face that showed he didn't believe Dean for a second. He paused, raising his bowl to his face to take a sniff, and recoiled. With a sigh, he asked his oldest, "Why don't you call and order us a couple of pizzas?"

"Thank God." Dean replied, standing and taking both bowls to the sink to empty them out, "Pepperoni good? Or do you want something else?"

"Pepperoni is fine, but get whatever you boys want, I really don't care." John replied, "After we eat, we can talk about a couple of cases I've gotten wind of today and pick which one we want to hit next."

Dean grinned, the talk of a hunt always putting him at ease, and pulled his phone from his pocket. Tilting his head towards the hallway, he said, "I'll go check with Sammy and see what kind of pizza he wants, then I'll order."

"You do realize he's not going to tell you, right?" John questioned, pointing out the obvious, "The kid hasn't spoken a word in over two weeks. I thought he'd get over it when you got home, but apparently not."

Dean groaned, running his hand over his face. He knew that the silent treatment thing was out of character for his brother, but he would have never guessed it had been going on for two weeks now. With a tired sigh, he asked, "So what happened? You two fight?"

"Not any more than normal." John said with a shrug, "The first day, I just thought he was pissed. The second day, it pissed me off, but there wasn't much I could do when he wouldn't even respond to me. The third day, I realized it was kind of nice."

"Nice?" Dean asked incredulously, "Are you kidding me?"

"Watch your tone, young man." John scolded, though he promptly resumed their conversation, "It is nice. He always has to have the last word, he's always being dramatic and emotional and he talks more than you and I combined. The last few weeks have been peace and quiet. He does what he's told, when he's told, without arguing. He gets his school work and training done without having a bitch fit over it and he's even helped out with some extra odds and ends around the apartment without having to be asked. When he's not complaining or picking a fight with me, he is a very quick and thorough worker."

"But he's not _Sam_ if he is quiet all of the time." Dean protested, feeling unexplainably furious for his father not taking this as a problematic situation. How could Dad not care if Sam completely stopped talking for weeks? This was a major red flag that something was wrong, how could no one else see it?

John shrugged again, grabbing a beer from the fridge and twisting the cap off, "He is capable of speaking, he's just not doing it. You know how stubborn Sam can be, he's trying to prove a point and will get over it soon enough. Until then, I'm going to enjoy this nice, compliant, quiet Sam. I'm telling you, things have been wonderful around here without him picking fights and creating drama."

Knowing there was no changing John's mind, Dean decided to try and make some progress with Sam. It was easier, now, knowing that Sam wasn't pissed at him and that it was just some Dad-issue. He walked into their bedroom, waving his phone slightly as he said, "We're going to order pizza. Pepperoni good? Or that veggie crap you've been into lately?"

Sam shrugged, staring at his book silently though Dean knew he wasn't reading. Dean was about to give up and walk away when he noticed a tear splash onto the page of the book. His heart and stomach clenched in concern, he hated to see Sam cry. Pizza forgotten, he sat down across from his little brother and pulled the book away, asking in a firm but kind voice, "Hey, look at me." Sam refused to comply, but Dean continued anyway, "I don't know what is going on with you, but you don't have to shut me out. I can help, whatever it is. Us against the world."

Sam shook his head, more tears falling before he could stop them, and quickly pulled away, maneuvering off the bed and away from Dean. A few moments later, the bathroom door slammed shut and the shower turned on, leaving Dean alone and wondering what the hell was going on. He looked up when he heard his father clearing his throat, a sympathetic ghost of a smile on his lips.

"I went ahead and ordered a triple meat pizza and one of those roasted tomato, olive oil, wheat and veggie monstrosities that Sam enjoys." John said softly, "He'll be fine, Ace. Sam is just...well, when he makes up his mind you can't get through to him. He'll come around, you'll see."

"What were you fighting about?" Dean questioned, running his hand over his face as he tried to piece together everything he knew, "What did you say that made him decide to give you the silent treatment?"

John sighed, leaning against the doorframe as he tried to remember the details, "He came home from school in a pissy mood, slamming doors and bitching at me every time I tried to talk to him. He shut himself away in his room until dinner, and then afterwards we went out for a bite to eat…"

_13 days prior_

_John and Sam walked into the Driftwood Diner, both looking like they wanted to be anywhere else. They sat across from each other at a booth, John looking through the menu while Sam gazed out the window with a scowl on his face._

"_You need to fix your face, son, before I fix it for you." John warned, "I'm not your brother, I won't put up with your bad attitude."_

"_I don't have a bad attitude." Sam snapped, "I didn't even say anything."_

"_You didn't have to say anything, it is written all over your face."_

"_This is just how I look!" Sam retorted angrily, "I'm not doing anything wrong! If I try to talk to you, you get all pissed off. If I don't talk to you, you get all pissed off! I can't win, because I'm not Dean. Nothing I ever do is good enough for you and I'm done trying. I quit."_

_Sam stood up, slamming his menu down on the table and storming out the door, ignoring John's demands to return to his seat._

Dean frowned deeply. Sam had a volatile temper and that exchange wasn't too difficult to picture happening, but it was unusual for Sam to hold a grudge for weeks over something that minor. There had to be more to the story. "And then he just stopped talking to you altogether?"

"Not just me. He isn't talking at school, either, I suppose. The counselor left me a message saying he is withdrawn and may benefit from counseling. He is determined to make his point. I tried to reason with him, bargain with him, listen to him...nothing worked. He just needs to feel like he has made his point." John reasoned, his tone implying he didn't think this was as big of a deal as Dean did, "Just let him be, let him get it out of his system and things will be back to normal soon."

Dean stood, shaking his head slightly. He didn't agree, but he wasn't going to start a fight over it. He'd fix this problem, just like he fixed most of Sam's problems. A big brother's work was never finished, especially when your little sibling was someone was complex as Sam Winchester. He quickly unpacked his bag, tossing the clean clothes into a drawer and tossing the dirty ones into a corner on Sam's side of the room. It was a win-win situation in regards to his poor housekeeping skills; either Sam would ignore it or clean it up himself, which meant Dean didn't have to listen to him complain about it, or Sam would actually complain about it, which meant he'd be talking again. He had just finished storing his weapons when Sam came back into the room, trying but failing to hide his red and watery eyes. Dean was about to approach the kid and try to talk to him again, but Sam made his stance perfectly clear when he flopped onto his bed and covered his face with a pillow.

"Hey, kiddo, pizza will be here soon, so don't get too comfortable."

Sam didn't need words to accentuate the hand gesture that he used to respond, and Dean let out a low whistle before moving towards the door, "No need to get vulgar, Sammy. I didn't do anything to you, it's not my fault you and Dad are...were?...fighting. Try to remember that." Sam didn't answer, but he also didn't raise his finger again, so Dean considered it a win and left his brother alone to sulk in peace.

Over the next few days, Dean hoped Sam would come around and start talking to him again, but he had very little luck. Dean had come home on Wednesday night and early Saturday morning, their father had left for a hunt two states over, leaving the two boys alone. Dean was certain that this was the opportunity he'd been waiting for, the perfect moment to get Sam talking again. After all, if Dad wasn't there, there was no reason for Sam to ignore all of them. To ensure the best possible outcome, Dean even woke up early and fixed a full breakfast of eggs, bacon and pancakes to entice his little brother's cooperation.

To say the plan had blown up in his face would be a complete understatement. Sam had refused to get out of bed, kicking Dean's hand away when he tried to shake his foot, pushing his hands away when he had shaken Sam's shoulder and actually taking a swing at Dean when he tried to rouse him more forcefully. Sam was lucky he had missed, because by this point Dean was pissed and it would have been the start of their first knock-down, drag-out fights in ages. After forty-five minutes of trying to coax Sam out of bed and into the world of the living, Dean gave up, tossed the entire now-cold meal in the trash and then slammed his fist into the wall before sitting at the table to sulk.

Sam didn't emerge from his room until nearly midnight, at which time Dean was dozing on the sofa while watching some B-grade horror movie that was playing on cable. He made no effort to keep the noise levels down so Dean could sleep, though in his defense he didn't make much noise at all, only filling up a glass with water, drinking it, and heading back to his room. The sound of footsteps had woken Dean, but he made no move to acknowledge his brother's presence, since he figured it wouldn't make a difference anyway.

When Dean had been home for a week and was still on the receiving end of a bad case of silent treatment, he was beginning to really feel the stress of the situation. He was angry at Sam for shutting him out, angry at Dad for fighting with Sam and then leaving him to try and pick up the pieces, angry at Caleb and Joshua for removing him from the apartment in the first place and also for not keeping him away longer. It wasn't until this point of his life where he really realized how much he loathed not being in control of a situation. This was driving him crazy, and he knew there was nothing he could do about it. He sat at the table all day, thinking of different ways to make Sam talk to him. It started off with bribery, different ways of making Sam so happy that he'd have to talk, and then turned to painful, torturous methods that he knew he'd never use. Well, he thought he'd never use. If this went on much further, he may be convinced that 'Dangle Sam over a pit of angry alligators unless he begs for mercy' was a necessary evil.

He didn't realize how long he had spent dwelling on the situation until the door opened and Sam walked in. A quick glance at the clock informed Dean that it was, indeed, 3 pm and school was over.

"How was school?" Dean asked civilly, his tone neutral as to not betray how fed up he really was with Sam's lack of speech.

Sam glanced at Dean and gave a half-hearted shrug, then walked to the fridge and pulled out a soda.

"Did you have any tests today?" Dean asked, a pang in his chest as he realized he actually didn't know the answer to this question when he had spent the last 11 years knowing the ins and outs of Sam's schooling.

Sam shook his head slightly, which was the most he had tried to communicate with Dean in a week, and Dean felt a spark of hope light inside of him. Acknowledging his brother was the first step in communicating again, so perhaps they were on the right path.

"Make any new friends?"

Sam turned to Dean with an eyeroll and a glare, making his position on that subject well-known, and Dean decided to roll with it and pretend like they were actually holding a conversation.

"Well, of course they wouldn't be interested in you, they've probably heard about your cooler older brother."

Sam gave Dean the one-finger salute, and for a split second Dean thought Sam was going to talk to him and tell him off or possibly even just laugh, but as quickly as Sam's good mood started, it quickly deflated and Sam's face went blank, leaving Dean wondering what the hell just happened. Sam moved to the table, sitting across from his brother but looking down at the worn wood instead of at his big brother. Trying to get back into at least a shadow of a conversation, Dean asked, "Want to do something tonight? We can go to a movie."

Sam didn't even bother to look up from the table, and after a minute or so of silence, Dean tried again, "What about that Abby girl? You two were inseparable before I left. Did you get your twinkie stinky yet?"

They had been in town for almost two months now, which was a good bit of time for them, and after only a few days at his new school, Sam had become friendly with a girl who lived nearby named Abby. By the time Dean had left for the hunt, Sam was spending 70% of his waking hours hanging out with the petite blonde, and then another 15% of his time talking to her on the phone. Since he had been home, though, Dean hadn't seen her and he couldn't help but wonder if she was getting this silent treatment as well.

Sam looked at Dean with an expression that Dean simply could not place, though it wasn't a look he ever wanted to see on his brother's face again. Sam looked away, leaving Dean wondering exactly what the look on Sam's face meant. Wondering if it was his slightly vulgar slang that prompted the reaction, he tried again, "Don't like that one? How about 'playing hide the sausage'?"

In response, Sam exhaled loudly and then stood, his expression blank though Dean could tell his hands were slightly shaking, even though the kid was trying to hide it. Didn't Sam know that he couldn't keep secrets from Dean? That Dean knew him just as well as he knew himself? Sam opened a cabinet and pulled out a bottle of tylenol, shaking a few into his palm and swallowing them dry. With a troubled expression, he glanced at Dean for a split second before grabbing his soda and moving towards the door.

Dean knew that once Sam retreated to their room, he probably wouldn't see him again that night, since that had been the pattern lately, so he quickly followed Sam, catching him by the wrist, "Wait, Sammy."

Sam looked at Dean and the older Winchester was surprised to see tears in his younger brother's eyes. Dean squeezed Sam's wrist gently, not quite sure what to say but knowing he couldn't blow this chance. "Sammy? You're crying."

Sam reached a shaky hand to his face, touching his wet cheek and then staring at his hand as if he didn't even realize tears had been flowing. Sam tried to pull away, but Dean wouldn't let go, and Dean said firmly, "Sammy, dude, you've got to talk to me. Whatever it is, we can deal with it together. I can help you, but you have to let me in. I don't care if you don't talk to anyone else ever again, but I need you to talk to me. I miss you. I need you, man."

Sam looked at Dean, his red, watery eyes breaking Dean's heart like no one else could, and after a few _agonizingly slow_ moments, the younger boy whispered, "I...I…"

Dean remained silent, not wanting to push the issue and lead Sam to close up on him but also desperately needing to know what was going on in his brother's head. He gave Sam's wrist another light squeeze, waiting for Sam to open up like he knew his brother would.

"I...I just can't." Sam said quietly, his voice so full of emotion that it brought tears to Dean's own eyes.

"What do you mean, you can't?" Dean asked, frowning deeply, "You can tell me anything. Didn't we establish that years ago? A whole lifetime ago?"

Dean's mind was racing. The idea that Sam thought there was something he couldn't talk to his big brother about was shocking; they had never been in this situation before. Dean knew most, if not all, of Sam's secrets and Sam knew a large majority of Dean's as well. It was hard to grow up alone, separate from the rest of the world, and not have a bond and friendship that allowed complete openness. It wasn't as if they could hide anything, even if they wanted to, living in each other's back pocket 98% of the time. If Sam felt like he had to keep this to himself, it had to be really serious. Even then, it had to be something absolutely terrible, because Dean was the first person Sam went to when he was faced with a serious problem. Dean was the first person Sam went to when face with any problem. What could be so bad that it had Sam broken apart like this? Instantly, his mind went to the most horrible of places. Had Dad hurt Sam? Was he being bullied at school? Worse? Had he been violated? Attacked? Had he killed someone?

Sam only shook his head, more tears falling though this time he made no move to stop them. "It's not you. I just can't talk about it."

"Did someone hurt you?"

"No!" Sam replied forcefully, looking at his brother as if he had grown three heads all of a sudden. His expression changed from surprise and disbelief to comprehension within the span of seconds, and he shook his head forcefully, "No, it's not that, nothing like that at all."

"Then what?" Dean demanded, "If you're in trouble, I need to know. I can't fix it if I don't know what 'it' is."

"You can't fix it anyway." Sam muttered, pulling his arm away before making quick progress to his room and leaving Dean staring after him in concern. Only hesitating for a second, he followed his brother, putting out a hand to prevent Sam from slamming the door shut.

"Look, you know I'm the last one in the word to want to talk about their feelings. I get that you want your privacy and I get that you don't think I'll understand or something, but we're going to talk about this. Now." Dean snapped, putting his hands on Sam's shoulders as he talked so his brother couldn't escape, "We've done this your way; weeks of silence and this weird not-Sam attitude of doing what you're told, when you're told, with no back-talking or fuss. It may fly with Dad, but it's not going to fly with me."

"Leave me alone." Sam replied, trying to pull away from Dean's grip. It was harder than Dean remembered to contain his brother, but he supposed the nine inches Sam had put on in the last year played a part in that.

Tightening his grip until his fingers dug into the bones of Sam's shoulders, Dean shook his head, determination evident in his posture and voice, "No, I'm not going to leave you alone. Whatever this is, it's not good for you. You can't just bottle it up and hope it goes away, Sammy, life doesn't work like that."

"It works like that for you."

"Do as I say, not as I do." Dean retorted without missing a beat, "Come on, Sam, you're scaring me."

"You don't need to be scared." Sam muttered, his bangs falling into his eyes and making him look six instead of sixteen, "I'm fine. Just leave me alone, please, Dean, I'm begging you."

"It's not going to happen." Dean said firmly, pulling his younger brother in for a tight embrace. When all else failed, physical contact usually was enough to bust the dam holding back Sam's thoughts and emotions. "It's in the big brother handbook, you know, rule #3: If something is upsetting your kid brother, you have to find out what it is and rip out it's lungs."

Sam chuckled slightly, but within seconds the laughter turned into soft whimpers followed by shuddering gasps as the floodgates opened and he began to sob into Dean's shoulder. In all honesty, Dean was terrified. He didn't know what was going on with his brother, only that Sam was clearly upset about something, and he hated not knowing things, especially things relating to Sam. He had seen Sam cry before, plenty of times. There were the tears that came with an injury; vocal and varying in intensity depending on the seriousness of the injury. There were the tears that came from a particularly brutal fight with their father or the news that they were uprooting yet again, silent and angry, but those had been far more rare over the last couple of years now that Sam had gained some maturity. There were tears that were brought on by fear, usually quiet and meant to be hidden, though there wasn't enough privacy to actually hide them. During those times, both boys pretended like nothing was happening unless Sam actively sought out comfort. Again, those had also rapidly disappeared during Sam's teenage years.

Dean could count on one hand the number of times Sam had cried loud, heartbreaking sobs that left him hyperventilating and completely spent afterwards. He would wager to say that he hadn't seen Sam this distraught since the time he had been left alone, hungry and scared, for several weeks a few years back. This sort of panic and emotion made Dean's own heart race with the worry about what could be bothering Sam so much as well as the possibility that he may not be able to fix whatever it was. He hated to see Sam hurting and this was the epitome of the most Sam could hurt and still be coherent.

He gasped as Sam's legs gave out beneath him, sending both boys to the floor, but Dean refused to let go, his own panic growing with every minute that passed by where his brother couldn't speak through the tears and gasps for air. It didn't take long for Dean's legs to go numb from the position he was sitting, and he wanted nothing more than to stretch his legs out and relocate them to a more comfortable spot, but he wasn't willing to risk Sam withdrawing again. By the time Sam's sobs had settled to soft whimpers, it was nearly dusk and they had been sitting on the floor for at least an hour, if not longer. Once Sam was calm enough to form words, Dean quietly asked, "What is it, Sam?"

"A-Abby." Sam whispered, his face still buried in his brother's shoulder. Dean's shirt was wet with tears mixed with sweat from both boys, but Sam didn't seem eager to move and Dean had no intention of forcing him to, "I had a fight with Dad."

"The diner?"

Sam nodded, silent for a few moments before continuing, "I went to Abby's...I was pissed and I wanted to talk to someone who would understand. We were out by the park, just sitting on the swings and talking about our parents. It started getting pretty dark, and I knew Dad would throttle me if I stayed out too late, so we were going to walk home."

"Did someone corner you at the park?"

Sam shook his head, shuddering before continuing in a shaky voice, "I walked her home. Her parents were out, but her brother was supposed to be there. I just left her in the driveway and started walking home; she's not allowed to have me over when her parents are gone."

"Yeah?"

Sam's breath hitched and Dean was sure his brother was going to start crying again, but somehow Sam held it together and continued, "The next morning...at school...everyone was talking about it. She had been killed, walking in on a robbery...stabbed…"

"Fuck." Dean breathed out, his own heart racing as he thought about the cute little girl that Sam had been spending so much time with being brutally killed. Sam's shoulders shook with tears once more, though this time they were silent and sorrowful. Rubbing soothing circles on Sam's back, Dean searched for the right words to say, but found none.

"If I had just walked her in...or if we had stayed out a little bit later...or if I hadn't even have asked her to meet up in the first place…" Sam moaned, devastation and desperation heavy in his words, "I didn't even know, I left her there alone and she _died_ Dean, I could have protected her, but I didn't and she died."

"No." Dean said sharply, pulling back from his brother so he could look the younger boy in the eye, "You aren't going to do this. The situation sucks balls, Sammy, it really does. It's unfair and depressing as hell, it leaves a bad taste in my mouth and it royally blows, but _none_ of this is on you. None of it."

"If I had-"

"No!" Dean repeated again, louder and more forcefully, "You can't do this, Sam. Listen to me, I know what I'm talking about. If you start playing the 'what if' game, you'll just drive yourself crazy. Unless you took out a knife and stabbed her, you aren't responsible. You had no way of knowing what was going to happen, you just did what you've done plenty of times before. No good will come from wondering what you could have done differently."

"But-"

"No, Sammy." Dean interrupted softly, "Don't do this to yourself."

Dean watched as Sam visibly deflated, looking as if the weight of the world had been slightly lifted off his shoulders. It was a talent that Dean had held since Sam was a baby, the ability to say something and have his brother believe it whether it was the truth or a variation of the truth. He knew this to be truth, though, that it was not Sam's fault. Sam didn't have a mean-spirited bone in his body, if he had even an inkling that the girl wouldn't have been safe he wouldn't have left her there. Dean sighed, wishing he could erase this experience from his brother or that he had the right words to make everything better. Unfortunately, sometimes a solution just didn't exist.

"I really liked her." Sam sniffled, looking down at the floor with a utterly depressed expression, "I mean, I _really_ liked her."

"I know you did, kiddo." Dean replied, standing and stretching slightly before offering his hand to his brother, "Come on, I'll show you what Dad and I do when we can't save someone."

Sam raised an eyebrow in questioning, and Dean just smiled, hand still outstretched. Sam had never been on a hunt where they weren't able to save someone, but Dean and Dad had experienced that disappointment several times since Dean started hunting. When he was thirteen, his father had introduced Dean to his coping mechanism and now it was time to pass the torch along.

When Sam finally took Dean's hand, Dean pulled him to his feet and then put a hand on his shoulder, leading him to the kitchen and telling the younger boy, "Have a seat, Sammy."

Sam did as he was told, and Dean walked to the cabinet where their groceries were stored, moving boxes of cereal and macaroni and cheese out of the way to reach a half-full bottle of amber liquid in the back.

"Liquor?" Sam questioned, an eyebrow raised, "That's your secret tool for dealing with the guilt?"

Dean shrugged, opening the top and pouring a generous amount into two glasses, "Not just liquor, Sammy. _Good_ liquor. Not the cheap crap Dad drinks all the time, not even the halfway decent crap that he gets when we have company. This is high end, mess you up before you even realized you've drank it good stuff he saves for when he really wants to forget."

"Won't Dad be mad?" Sam asked, his tone and expression unsure and apprehensive.

Dean raised an eyebrow, asking, "Do you think he'd be more pissed about the drink or that you've been walking around for three weeks carrying this around on your shoulders without even mentioning it to him?"

"Touche." Sam replied flatly, though he did move closer to the glass. Giving a sideways glance towards his older brother, he brought the glass to his lips and took a small sip, quickly scrunching up his face as if he wasn't sure if he should spit the foul liquid out or just swallow it down. He swallowed it down, gagging slightly and shuddering. "This is so nasty."

"You can't sip it, Samantha, it's not wine." Dean retorted, taking his own glass and waving it around in front of his brother in a 'watch me and learn' sort of way. Once he had Sam's attention, he put the glass to his lips, leaning his head back and gulping it down quickly before slamming down the glass with a slight shiver and a look of triumph, "That's how it's done. If you drink it fast, it warms and numbs you. If you sip it like a chick, you're gonna make yourself puke."

Sam glanced down at the glass again, still looking unsure, then asked quietly, "Makes you numb, how?"

"It takes the pain away, that's all. It helps you relax, it helps you sleep. You'll appreciate it, trust me." Dean coaxed, his thoughts wandering to their Dad and imagining the expression on his face if he found out he was trying to convince his younger brother to get shit-faced on the pricey liquor that the old man hoarded. "Don't overthink it, just drink it."

With a slight shrug, Sam took the glass and followed Dean's example, barely able to choke it down as the minute he swallowed it down his body tried to reject it. Sam swallowed several times and Dean waited apprehensively, hoping his brother wasn't going to hurl all over him, but after a few seconds of swallowing and shuddering, Sam stilled, his eyes shut tightly though a few tears had leaked onto his face. "You okay, Sam?"

His brother's response was to hold out the glass again, still silent and tense. For a fleeting moment, Dean wondered if he should allow this to continue or if they should talk it out or something a little healthier. His mind was quickly made up as he realized he had very little words of support to offer and he didn't particularly feel like going through an awkward sharing and caring session. This was definitely a better solution for both of them. Tipping the bottle over the extended glass, he refilled the cup halfway and then poured some more into his own.

"So you and Dad just drink when a hunt goes south?" Sam asked curiously, "You don't talk or anything?"

"Yeah, we braid each other's hair and thoroughly discuss our feelings." Dean deadpanned, knowing his brother was genuinely curious about what happened when they were off alone and he was left behind, but having nothing helpful or useful to tell the kid, "Afterwards, we take off our bras and dance naked under the moon."

"Jerk."

"Bitch." Dean retorted with a smile, placing the liquor bottle on the table and raising his glass, "No, seriously, this is what you do. Hold your cup to mine and we'll have a toast."

"A toast? To what?"

Dean waited for Sam to clink their glasses together, and Dean said somberly, "To Abby."

"To Abby." Sam echoed, a pained expression on his face. Dean was seconds away from trying out a comforting platitude, but was cut off as his brother downed his next serving of alcohol, putting his glass down roughly on the table and raising his fist triumphantly.

Like it or not, the kid was definitely a Winchester. And Dean knew he'd be okay, because Winchesters were tough. They were resilient. And they always bounced back.


	6. Chapter 5-5

_**Okay, I couldn't resist adding another part to the last snapshot, so we'll call this one 5.5. This is a snapshot of John and Sam talking about Sam's friend's death as well as them dealing with a case that finds its way to them. Let me know what you think! I appreciate everyone who has left reviews!**_

Sam awoke with start, chest heaving and heart racing. He wiped the sweat off of his face as he tried to push through the disorientation he was feeling and fully wake. His stomach twisted ominously but he refused to give in to the physical symptoms of his nightmare, and instead took a deep breath and let it out slowly, forcing himself to calm down and not to make a scene. He had been a victim of vivid, horrible, downright brutal nightmares since he was a young child, so he was all too familiar with the steps needed to fully disengage from his subconscious thoughts and firmly plant himself this side of reality.

"Y'kay?" Dean mumbled from the bed next to him, and Sam ran his fingers through his messy hair for a moment, grounding himself so his voice wouldn't shake when he replied that he was fine. He was so far from okay that he didn't think he'd ever be okay again.

He sank back against his pillows, knowing that if he continued to move and not give the impression of going back to sleep, Dean would further wake and pry and he couldn't deal with that right now. He closed his eyes but was immediately met with Abby's face, splattered with blood and carved up so badly he could barely recognize her soft features. His eyes snapped open again, clearly he wouldn't be going back to sleep tonight.

He had no way of knowing how bad Abby's injuries had been, how many times the knife had torn through her flesh or how much blood had sprayed on the walls and furniture before pooling beneath her on the bright European tile that decorated the Richardson's kitchen floor. He really had no clue, but his imagination worked overtime to fill the gaps in his knowledge and create pictures and falsehoods that had to be more gory and terrifying than what actually had happened. _Please, God, let it be worse than what actually happened._ He laid still for a few minutes, trying to clear his mind completely and think about something, anything, else that would distract him from the torture his mind had created. Despite his best efforts, his mind kept travelling back to his dreams, back to the fabricated image of Abby torn to shreds.

The moment Sam heard Dean softly snoring, he sat up silently and did his best to creep out of the bedroom unnoticed. He had gotten disturbingly good at fooling Dean over the last week and while he was relieved that he was able to escape without having to answer to his older brother, he was also worried by the fact that Dean wasn't always one step ahead of him. While his older brother's presence could be suffocating at times, deep down it was reassuring to know that Dean knew him as well, and sometimes better, than he knew himself and therefore was able to prevent him from doing monumentally stupid things.

Like, for instance, sneaking into the kitchen and drinking some of his father's pricey booze that he was definitely going to notice had been tampered with.

It had been six days since he had told Dean about Abby, six days since Dean had gotten him completely drunk on (only three small glasses of) his father's pricey whiskey. His brother had been right, the liquor had numbed his pain and given him a break from the agony he had been suffering with, alone, for weeks. Unfortunately, at the end of his break from reality, he not only had to suffer the painful, burning and intense bout of sickness that came as a result of his first indulgence (and over-indulgence, apparently) but also was spent enough to deeply sleep for the first time since Abby had died. That was when the nightmares started.

He had dreamed of her before, but never in vivid, horror-movie style detail. In his previous dreams, he knew she was gone and she sometimes blamed him, but mostly they were centered around his sense of loss and grief. Now, they were more like graphic playbooks of what could have happened, complete with blood, gore, blame and hatred. They plagued him every time he closed his eyes, his sleep reduced to two hours or less per night, most of which was not peaceful in the least. Lying alone in silence did nothing to help with his nerves and get him back to sleep and as a result he was more moody and temperamental due to exhaustion.

Instead of lying in bed, staring at the ceiling and dwelling on his thoughts, he had discovered it was easier to sneak out of his room and partake in a bit of liquid relaxation. He didn't drink as much as he had with Dean, not wanting to make himself sick again, but after a little bit of experimenting he found the perfect amount that would allow him to lay in bed without being dragged under into his dreams once more but also dull his senses enough to where he didn't think about Abby or care much about anything.

Sam knew his father would find out, and he knew his father would be pissed. Not only his dad, but probably Dean as well. He knew Dean well enough to know that not only would Dean be upset that he hadn't sought out his big brother when the dreams intensified, but Dean would also take offense that Sam was partaking in the special liquor sneakily and alone when it had been intended to be a special thing for the two of them to share. He just found it so incredibly hard to care about what they thought when he felt like he was dying from the pain and guilt he was carrying around.

Moving the items in the cabinet around, he took the bottle out and sloshed the liquid around for a few moments, watching it move from side to side intently as he tried to justify this in his mind. He needed it; it helped him relax, it made him stop thinking and feeling and with it, he was just Sam again. Not Sam-with-the-dead-girlfriend, not Sam-who-is-in-danger-of-failing-school, not Sam-who-is-fragile-and-broken and certainly not Sam-who-has-nightmares-and-wants-to-curl-up-and-die. He had to take it, there was really no other option. Too bad no one else would see it that way. He poured himself a drink, finishing it quickly and putting the bottle away, just in case Dean wandered out of their room or their dad came home unexpectedly. The liquid was warm going down his throat and he no longer felt the urge to gag on the taste, and as he rinsed his glass out he reminded himself that his father dealt with all sorts of problems in this fashion, so it couldn't be too bad of a coping mechanism. Even to his tired, aching mind the excuse sounded weak, but he knew that soon it wouldn't matter and he wouldn't care nearly as much.

He rinsed out his glass, then quietly crept back into his bedroom and into his bed. As he had hoped for, Dean hadn't stirred. Staring at the ceiling, Sam waited patiently for the loose and fuzzy feeling to take over his mind and erase the hurt that had become his constant companion. He had thought that this pain would get easier as time passed, but that hadn't been the case. Instead, with the more time that passed, the more vivid his imagination became and the more he began to closely analyze the events that had taken place. Unfortunately, every time he analyzed the minute details of that night, the more he was able to find decisions he made that could have directly changed the outcome. Time was not healing his wounds, instead, time was creating more and more wounds while causing the initial wounds to fester and disease. Slowly, he started to feel less anxious and his eyes drooped heavily. He fought the urge to sleep, but eventually found himself unable to resist the pull towards unconsciousness.

The sun was out when Sam blinked open his eyes once more and he was surprised to find himself calm and rested, which could only mean that the last bit of sleep he had gotten was pleasant instead of nightmarish. The sun was streaming through the windows, the birds were chirping outside and for a fleeting moment he felt happy and peaceful. As soon as the sleepiness cleared out of his mind, though, memories and emotions came flooding back and he groaned, covering his face with one arm and wishing he was still unconscious. To make matters worse, he could hear voices coming from the hallway. He could make out Dean's voice clearly, and had to assume that the other was his father, since he knew Dean wouldn't have anyone over to their crappy apartment, especially this early in the morning.

He would rather walk through hot coals than to face his father right now. Dean had probably told him about Abby, and he didn't want his father to ask questions or even mention her name. Actually, he'd be okay with never seeing his father again, or Dean, or anyone else for that matter. Laying in bed and doing absolutely nothing until he wasted away to death sounded like a fantastic plan and if he thought he'd be able to get away with it, it would be number one on his agenda.

The voices grew closer and Sam tried to even out his breathing and appear to be asleep just in case they were planning on coming in and talking to him. Dean was never one for heart-to-heart chats, but there was no doubt in his mind that if Dean thought it would help, he'd do it in a heartbeat. But it wouldn't help, and Sam was hoping to avoid talking about this at all costs. He'd already broken down once in front of his brother and he wasn't planning on a repeat performance, especially in front of their dad.

Just as Sam feared, the door opened and two footsteps entered the room. He felt a tap on his foot, then his father's voice met his ears, "Sam, up and at'em. You've got a lot of training ahead today and daylight's burning."

Sam moved his arm and made eye contact with his father, having no plans to actually talk to him just as he had been doing for weeks prior to his little meltdown with Dean. They stared at each other for a few minutes, John's gaze searching and impatient while Sam only looked at him impassively, without a trace of defiance or anger that it usually held. John broke eye contact first after about ten seconds had passed, and Sam pushed himself into a sitting position as a show of good faith that he was going to do what he was told. He had learned during the weeks where he refused to speak that the majority of his father's temper, when directed at Sam, began as a reaction to whatever look or gesture Sam made.

For instance, he had noticed straight away that his father started yelling immediately, without preamble, if Sam gave him a disgruntled look or refused to make eye contact in the first place. If he maintained a blank or complying expression, John was more likely to give him an instruction and disappear without waiting to see if Sam would protest or actually do it. In return, Sam would repay the favor by doing what he was told and they were able to co-exist peacefully in harmony. It was easy, since there were no words to be spoken. When speaking actual words to his father, it was much harder to filter out what he shouldn't be saying, so it was much easier for the situation to escalate.

Dean looked between John and Sam during the exchange, then raised an eyebrow at Sam when the younger boy refused to speak. Sam had been quiet, but verbal, for nearly a week now, so there was no reason why he was resuming silent treatment now. Sam glared at his brother, challenging him to say something, but Dean turned away first and Sam knew the issue was over.

John hovered in the doorway with an uncomfortable expression for a moment, seeming like he wanted to say something, but then left and headed in the direction of the kitchen. Once gone, Dean asked, "What was that all about?"

"I just don't want to talk to him." Sam replied, taking off his t-shirt and changing into one that was clean. Turning away from Dean, he slipped out of his pajama pants and into a pair of shorts. He hurriedly threw on a pair of socks and his running shoes, glancing at the clock with a scowl, "Why'd you let me sleep so late? You knew if Dad was home I'd have to run and train, and you know I hate going to school all sweaty, because then I stink all day."

"It's not stinking, it's smelling like a man."

"A nasty, sweaty man." Sam retorted, "Seriously, as it is I'm going to be cutting it close to my first class."

Dean shrugged slightly, "Sorry, dude. I got distracted talking to Dad and just noticed the time. Look, work hard and I'll give you a ride to school so you'll still have time to shower."

"Whatever." Sam grumbled, though he did give Dean the slightest hint of a smile, which slid right off of his face when he noticed Dean wasn't dressed in his running clothes, "What? You don't have to run today?"

"No, that is solely yours. Sorry, Sammy." Dean said with a cocky smile that showed just how not sorry he was. Dean hated running, though he didn't really put up much of a fight when ordered to do so. Sam, on the other hand, didn't mind running but always protested. They usually ran together, though, making it a competition and therefore more fun than just thinking and counting miles. Running by himself was boring and repetitive and Sam wasn't interested in doing it at all. As if Dean could see the complaints forming in his mind, he added, "I'm sure Dad had something even worse planned for me. I probably can get you out of sparring if you don't give him crap about running."

"Fine." Sam said quietly, grateful and relieved since he hated sparing, but still not pleased that he was having to do this part alone. The last thing he wanted to do was be alone with his thoughts.

He left the apartment without another word and jogged down the stairwell and to the road. The neighborhood they were staying in was far from safe, but it was manageable during the daylight hours. Sam tried to think of something he could do to keep his mind off of Abby, his dreams and how miserable he felt and struggled to come up with something distracting enough. When he and Dean ran together, they sometimes played the "waiting for the bus or making a drug deal" game, sometimes it was "who can find the used condom on the ground first" and more often than not "first one to find the entire rainbow in graffiti" since that required them to look in the horizon and away from those who may get upset by being stared at. Today, though, the neighborhood was bustling with kids getting out the door for school, the trash truck making its stops and just a few of the area's homeless searching for a handout.

He had made it nearly two miles before the whiskey he had taken in during the wee hours of the morning made a reappearance on the sidewalk. This was the first run he had been on since his Dad left and while the alcohol made him numb, he supposed it wasn't meant to be ingested before a long run. It wasn't the first time running had made him sick, so he wasn't concerned, but he was quite embarrassed when a mother passing by with her son murmured something to the child about teenagers on drugs. Spitting what he could of the taste out of his mouth, he pressed a hand to his stomach and finished the half-mile back to the apartment at a moderate jog, not wanting to further anger his digestive system and fighting a fatigue-induced headache. He made it back to the apartment panting and drenched in sweat, trudging slowly up the stairs and letting his forehead rest on the cool metal railing for a few moments before going inside the apartment.

He made eye contact with his dad, who was reading a newspaper at the kitchen table, and grabbed a glass out of the cabinet to pour himself some water. He drank the cold liquid down quickly, grimacing as it threatened to come back up. He hoped he wasn't coming down with something, that would be the last thing he needed right now. Swallowing a few times and glad he was standing at the sink just in case things went south, Sam tensed and waited for a few moments to see if he was going to throw up or not. As quickly as the urge had appeared, it disappeared and Sam exhaled shakily, placing the glass in the sink and turning to find his dad staring at him in concern.

"You okay, Sam?"

Sam nodded, running a hand through his sweaty hair. He waited for his father to break eye contact before leaving the kitchen and headed to take his shower. It wasn't until he was halfway through that he realized Dean hadn't been in the kitchen, living room or their bedroom. Where could he have gone in just twenty minutes? He hurriedly finished his shower, intending to ask his father just that, but after getting dressed he realized that asking would involve talking to the older man and he wasn't sure he was ready to do that just yet.

Instead, he gathered his backpack and books and walked to the kitchen, stopping in the doorway and staring expectantly at his father, trying to convey that he needed a ride to school and the question of Dean's whereabouts. Instead, John just stared back and said, "If you have something to say, I'd suggest you say it. Otherwise, you're going to be late for school."

Sam's gaze narrowed and he shifted his backpack anxiously. If he was now talking to his father and dad knew about Abby, then he could possibly ask about Abby. But if he didn't know, then it wouldn't hurt anything if he was talking or not. Still, it had been nice not talking (and therefore not fighting) with his dad and he wasn't ready to go back to the normal routine of daily screaming matches either. He glanced at the clock, a scowl on his face. He had to ask for a ride, there wasn't enough time to get to school on foot even if he ran.

"Could you please give me a ride to school? Dean said he would, but he's not here." Sam said quietly, looking at his dad for just a split second before moving his eyes to the floor. He swallowed the saliva pooling in his mouth, wishing he didn't feel so anxious and panicked just by talking to the man who had helped raise him, and as he waited for a response he twisted the bottom of his shirt between his fingers in an attempt to remain stoic.

John slid his chair back, standing and grabbing his keys, "I wouldn't want you to be late." He studied Sam for a few seconds, then asked, "Are you feeling alright, son? You look a bit pale."

"I'm fine." Sam replied quietly, walking towards the door uncomfortably, not liking the way his dad had been watching him. He wasn't sick, so his dad had no reason to worry about his health, and there was nothing John could do to fix what was broken in his head even if he had been interested in trying, which Sam highly doubted he was.

They silently made their way to John's truck and Sam slid in the passenger seat. After John cranked the engine and pulled out onto the road, Sam asked, "Where's Dean?"

"Caleb needed him on a hunt."

"Another one?" Sam exclaimed, more upset by this news than he rationally should be, "He just got back from a hunt with Caleb."

John shrugged, "The job doesn't wait. He should be back in a few days, if not sooner. It wasn't far from here."

"Why didn't you go?"

"I'll be heading up there after I drop you off at school. I didn't want you to come home and find everyone gone without a word." John replied, "I assume you know the rules?"

Sam nodded, staring out the window with a frown. Just because he wasn't thrilled to be alone with his dad didn't mean he wanted to be completely alone. The apartment would be empty and quiet with no one else there, and it was impossible not to think about Abby and how she had been killed while her parents were away. At the thought of Abby, Sam's stomach lurched and he gasped, "I'm going to be sick."

John pulled into a nearby parking lot and Sam pushed open the door, stumbling a step away from the truck and doubling over, breathing heavily as panic surged through his veins. He struggled to breathe calmly, hoping it would prevent the intense nausea from actually turning into getting sick, but the harder he tried to breathe normally, the more the world spun dizzily around him. Sam felt his father's hand on his back and it was just enough to ground him and prevent him from blacking out, though he wasn't sure it would be enough to keep his stomach down. He gagged loudly and wetly, acid burning in his throat, but forced himself to swallow back the water threatening to rise. He pushed his hair from his face, the motion effectively wiping away the sweat that had started dripping down his face. Slowly, the panic began to recede and with it, the feeling of impending sickness. Relieved that it was just a near-miss, he straightened up and muttered, "I'm okay."

"I think you need the day off, kiddo." John said worriedly, his hand finding Sam's forehead, "You aren't looking so hot."

Sam shook his head, "No, really, I'm okay. False alarm."

"You're many things, son, but I don't think okay is one of them." John countered, leading Sam back to the truck and waiting for him to sit before he shut the door. He walked around to his side and climbed in, studying his son for a few seconds before shaking his head, "No, you're going to spend the day in bed today. You may be starting to come down with something and they won't let you check yourself out of school. With Dean and I gone, it'll be best for you to be home already just in case you get any worse."

Sam knew it would do no good to argue now that John's mind was made up, so he reluctantly nodded. He didn't know why the idea of being home from school was so unappealing, since lately the idea of going to school had been equally unappealing. Maybe Dad was right and he was never satisfied, but regardless, Sam wasn't thrilled with this turn of events. The pressure building in his forehead above his left eye warned him that perhaps a day of rest would be beneficial, but while his brain knew he needed rest to remain healthy and function, his heart only ached at the idea of more nightmares and more time alone to dwell on his guilt and grief. He let his eyes shut, resting his head on the cool window and rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, realizing that it was sore as well.

"Dad?"

"Yes, Sam?" John asked, glancing in his youngest son's direction with concern. Sam's voice was tired and thin and he was starting to feel legitimately concerned about the boy's health. Over all, the normally-defiant teen hadn't given much protest or argument to anything John had said, which was worrisome enough, but on top of that Dean had told him that Sam's little girlfriend had been killed and that Sam wasn't taking it very well. He had been surprised to hear of the news, saddened that Sam hadn't felt comfortable coming to him with his problem, and concerned that it was taking a bigger toll on the child than he or Dean suspected. He resisted the urge to reach out and palm Sam's forehead, not wanting to do anything that may make Sam uncomfortable and not really confident in his role as caretaker; that had always fallen on Dean's shoulders.

"I don't want you to leave." Sam whispered, his voice so quiet that John was barely able to make out the words he had spoken. Sam blinked open his tired eyes, meeting John's worried gaze for a split second before he rubbed his aching forehead and shut them once more. "Please, Dad? Don't go meet up with Caleb and Dean. Stay home with me."

John hesitated. He knew the hunt was important and normally he wouldn't put up with childish requests such as these, regardless of the circumstances. On the other hand, Sam hadn't asked him to stay home since the child was 6 years old. In addition to that, his son was going through a difficult time and was clearly feeling under the weather. To make it even more unusual and significant, Sam was asking for _him_ instead of Dean, and this never happened. He just couldn't say no to that.

"Sure, Sammy. I'll stay home with you."

Sam lifted his head, wincing at the flare of pain shooting through his skull, "Really, Dad?"

"Yeah, Sam. I can sit this one out with you." John reached over, laying a hand on Sam's forehead and frowning as he felt a small amount of warmth there. "You're starting to feel a little warm, there, son. Anything hurting you?"

"My head." Sam admitted, rubbing the left side of his forehead again, "My ear feels sort of stuffy too; it doesn't hurt but I can feel pressure. And I still feel a little nauseous."

John raised an eyebrow at the confession, not expecting his son to speak with such a little amount of coaxing. Either Sam was feeling much worse than he was letting on and this was the abbreviated version or Sam was desperate for him to stay and was willing to cooperate fully to ensure it happened. Either way, it wasn't necessarily a good sign. They pulled into the parking lot of the apartment complex and John grabbed Sam's backpack, "Okay, Sammy, let's go upstairs and get you into a warm bed."

"Dad, I don't feel good." Sam whined, surprising both of them though neither showed it. He trudged around the car, his headache ratcheting up several notches as he moved, and he leaned against his father tiredly. He was feeling worse by the second and couldn't help thinking that he'd rather be plagued by nightmares about Abby than to continue feeling as out of sorts as he was currently feeling.

John wrapped an arm around his son, leading him up the stairwell slowly. He was starting to feel worried about Sam, it wasn't like his son to whine or really complain much, at least to him. Sam knew John had a very low tolerance for whining in general and he knew that Dean usually had to coax this sort of information out of Sam. For Sam to offer it all so openly and without much prompting was troublesome for the older hunter, who could pinpoint when something wasn't right from a mile away.

When they reached the apartment, Sam made a beeline for his bed and fell face-forward onto it, not bothering to change or even take off his shoes, much less bother with blankets. John entered a few moments later and unlaced Sam's shoes, placing them next to the bed and asking, "Can I get you anything, son?"

"Some water?"

"Think you can handle some aspirin, too?"

"Yeah, I think so." Sam mumbled, already sounding half-asleep, "Ice pack for my head?"

"Okay, I'll be right back, Sam." John replied, going to gather the requested supplies while still fighting the worry he felt at the pace at which his son was spiraling downhill. He returned a few minutes later, helping Sam sit and swallow the medication and then handing the teenager the bag of ice, "Did you get hurt while you were running earlier? Or hit your head recently?"

Sam shook his head, and then groaned at the movement, his face paling further as he fought another sudden surge of sickness as the room began to spin. He flinched as his father gently gripped his chin, flashing a light into each eye to check his pupils, "No, I didn't hit my head, Dad. I'm just tired. And sick." He swallowed several times, grimacing slightly as his body didn't seem sure whether it was going to reject the medication he had just swallowed or not, "Dad, I'm scared. I felt fine, like, an hour ago."

John watched as Sam swallowed convulsively several times, not liking the color of his boy's face nor the ominous way he kept looking towards the door as if planning his exit. He could hear the fear creeping into his son's voice and that concerned him more than anything so far, since he knew it had to be pretty bad for Sam to be panicking already. He wondered for a moment if he was in over his head; he had next to no experience dealing with sick kids and especially not sick kids who were starting to freak out. He sat down on the edge of Sam's bed, asking quietly, "Do you want me to call Dean and get him back here, and I can go take his place?"

"No." Sam replied tiredly, rolling onto his side to face his John, "Not Dean. You."

John reached out tentatively and brushed a strand of hair away from Sam's face, "You sure about that, tiger?"

"I want you, Dad." Sam insisted his eyes shutting and his voice getting heavy with impending sleep, "Dean's good and all, but you're the best at keeping us safe. Don't wanna die…."

John wanted to question that statement a little more, but it was clear that Sam had dozed off and while he had little experience with sick kids, it was a good rule of thumb to let them stay asleep once they dozed off, whether six months or sixteen years. He stood, stretching slightly and walking to the kitchen to make a few calls. Something about this wasn't sitting right with him, between the out of character behavior and the bizarre way that Sam's condition had deteriorated so quickly. It was time to do some research and see if he couldn't pinpoint what was giving him this uneasy feeling.

_It didn't take long for Abby to invade Sam's dreams, though this time she wasn't torn and bloody, instead she was beautiful, light surrounding her as if she were standing in view of the sun, a slight breeze blowing her hair gently around her face, her yellow dress flittering every so often. _

"_Sam." Her voice was soft and caring, the one word spoken so gently that Sam couldn't help but feel comforted by it. _

"_Abby." Sam replied, his own voice tight with sorrow and barely repressed emotion. He missed her so much, he wanted to reach out and touch her face or kiss her, but he knew that these dreams always turned bad and he was scared of doing anything that would cause it to begin. _

_Abby reached out to him, placing her hand on his cheek and telling him quietly, but firmly, "You can't keep beating yourself up, Sam. This wasn't your fault."_

"_I should have-"_

"_Sometimes bad things just happen, Sam. You have to accept them and move on."_

"_I can't move on."_

"_You're punishing yourself, shutting out the people who can help you through this and now allowing them to love you and care for you. You're isolating yourself, you're drinking, you're depressed. You need the support of your family, if anyone understands losing someone they care about it is your dad and your brother." Abby insisted, taking his hands into her own, "If you keep going on like this, it's going to kill you. You're barely eating, you're barely sleeping, you're wearing your body down and you've got to stop it."_

_Sam squeezed her hands tightly, not wanting to let go, "I don't know how."_

_Abby reached out, wiping away tears that had fallen to his cheeks, "I know, Sam. That's why I'm helping you. Don't be scared if things seem a little different, a little off. It's me helping you, it's because I love you, Sam."_

"_What do you mean?"_

"_You'll see. You'll understand soon. I'm giving you your family back, I'm going to let them take care of you the only way you'll let them, and once my work is finished everything will seem better." Abby soothed, stepping closer to him and gently pressing her lips against his, "I have to go now, but I'll always be with you."_

Sam awoke with a start, confused and disoriented as Abby's words echoed in his mind. His head ached fiercely and he picked up the ice pack that had fallen to the side of his pillow and put it back on his forehead with a groan. What had she meant? How could she help him? He felt like he knew the answer somewhere in his mind, but he couldn't locate the information to use it properly. It was hard to think about anything and suddenly all he wanted was his father, the older man's gruff presence that could make him feel equal parts safe and intimidated by one look. If anyone knew what Abby meant, it would be his father.

He propped himself up on his elbows, calling out, "Dad?"

There was no answer, so Sam struggled to his feet and tiredly staggered to his doorway, trying to ignore the stabbing pain blossoming through his skull. He couldn't remember a time, aside from several times that he got a few hard knocks to the head, where he felt so unsteady on his feet and the sensation was terrifying. He wasn't sure what was wrong with him, but it felt wrong and dangerous and not just an ordinary bout of the flu. As he got closer to the kitchen, he could hear his father's voice, though the room was buzzing too loudly around him to make out any of the words his father was speaking. Saliva pooled in his mouth and he held his breath for a moment, praying to every deity he had ever learned about that he wouldn't puke, because he didn't think he had the strength to make it to the bathroom. By the time he reached the kitchen doorway, the whole room seemed to be moving around him, colors swirling together like a kaleidoscope on a tilt-a-whirl. He gripped the doorway tightly, whispering, "Dad?"

"I've got to go. Thanks for your help." John spoke into the phone, hanging it up and hurrying to Sam's side, "Woah, hey there kiddo. You aren't looking so hot."

"I don't feel good, Dad." Sam said for what felt like the thousandth time that day, and he leaned his head against his the doorframe with a whimper, "Dad, you've got to make it stop."

"Make what stop?" John asked, "Tell me what I can do to help you."

Sam looked over at his father with a pained expression, finding it increasingly hard to form a coherent thought, "I don't know. Hurts to think. Fix it."

"Maybe we should take a trip to the doctor, Sammy, I'm not liking how things are progressing." John said with a worried frown, pressing his hand against Sam's forehead again and feeling much more heat than had originally been there, "You're burning up, kid."

"No doctors. I just want you." Sam insisted, though what he hoped would come out as a strong and decisive tone in actuality was more of a whine, "Please Dad? I just want you to stay with me, I feel like crap."

John wasn't sure what he should do. Every reasonable and logical bone in his body was telling him to get this kid into a clinic and get him looked over by professionals. He knew the red flags that it was time to seek medical care, and Sam was hovering really close to that line, but his gut instinct said that he needed to keep Sam at home, tuck him into bed and just keep vigil for awhile. Deciding to trust his instincts, as they usually proved to be dead on the mark, he put an arm around his son and assumed some of the kid's weight. He could feel the heat radiating off of Sam even through his sweaty clothing and he didn't like the way Sam trembled as he tried to stay on his feet.

"Couch or bed?" John asked quietly, leaving it up to Sam to make the decision on where he would be most comfortable. He waited for an answer but got none, and he wasn't even sure if Sam was hearing him considering how unsteady the boy was getting, "Okay, back to bed with you then."

"Wait." Sam groaned, his hands moving to his head in an effort to stop the room from weaving and shifting beneath him, "Dad."

"I'm waiting, son. What do you need?" John asked patiently, his voice a lot calmer than his mind actually was. He studied the teenager carefully, unease weighing heavily on his mind as he continued to silently evaluate his son.

Sam didn't answer, instead he brought his fist to his mouth and moaned, his body tensing in a way that was familiar and urgent to John after living with the kid for 16+ years. Deciding to handle business in the quickest and most efficient way possible, he half-dragged, half-pushed Sam to the kitchen sink, turning on the water and pushing Sam's head down over the stainless steel with one hand, moving dishes to the other side of the sink with the other. Sam gripped the edges of the counter tightly, clearly fighting this to the best of his ability and hating every moment of it. He rocked back and forth slightly, grimacing in pain as he tried to maintain what little control of his body he possessed, and stole a glance at his dad. He expected to see disgust or irritation, but instead John just appeared to be worried.

"Don't fight it, Sam. Just get it over with and you'll feel better."

"No." Sam protested, now panting slightly from the overpowering cramps, "Don't want to."

"Sam!" John said in a firmer, no-nonsense voice, "You know it's going to happen whether you want it to or not. Just get it out and over with and then you don't have to worry about it anymore."

Sam shifted under his father's grip, retching loudly despite his best attempts not to, and violently brought up the water he had consumed with such force that a fair bit splashed back at his face and arms, which just made him continue to heave even after his stomach was empty. It was over with in less than two minutes, but it felt like an eternity to Sam. His mind was unfocused, centered on how miserable he felt, and he barely noticed as John maneuvered him into a chair, taking a wet rag and cleaning him up. His nose started to run and he came to the realization that he was crying. As if Sam was two instead of sixteen, John took the rag and wiped away the snot leaking from Sam's nose as well, tossing the rag into the sink and asking, "Are you ready to go back to bed or should we move this to the bathroom?"

"Bed." Sam mumbled tiredly, allowing his father to pull him to his feet and practically carry him to the bedroom. Lights blurred around him, sounds echoing strangely and his father's voice distorted as he was gently positioned on the bed. He almost felt like he was about to pass out, but it wasn't really the same, instead of the edges greying and dotting out, it felt more like he was experiencing the world while underwater. "What's wrong with me?" he mumbled, doing his best to grab at his father's hand to prevent him from leaving, "Dad? I'm scared."

"I am too, Sam." John's voice cut through the fog, though it wasn't reassuring to Sam. Dad always had the answers, he always had a solution. For his dad to be scared, things had to be really bad. More tears leaked from his eyes and he felt his father's callused fingers wipe away the moisture, "It'll be okay, though. Get some sleep, we'll figure this out when you wake up."

"Don't leave me." Sam mumbled, already starting to drift off into sleep again.

John ran his fingers through Sam's unruly hair, a worried frown on his face, "Not going anywhere, Sammy."

John watched worriedly as Sam drifted off to sleep, wishing he had some sort of answer as to what was going on. While he didn't particularly mind Sam being clingy and miserable, since it was obvious the kid was very unwell, it wasn't like his son to be a whiny mess and so openly affectionate with anyone other than Dean. It was unlike Sam to even show this sort of weakness and vulnerability in front of him, never wanting to be treated like a baby or thought of as less than his big brother. Any other time, he could guarantee that Sam would have gone to great lengths just so John didn't know he was unwell. Case in point, he had been alone with the boy for weeks and had no idea that his girlfriend had been killed, because Sam had gone out of his way to keep it a secret. He was about to get up and call Dean to let him know he would be staying home, but paused when he got a glimpse of something while Sam turned his head to the side.

Barely visible under Sam's hair, John could see a thin trail of black goo leaking from Sam's ear down to his neckline. Ectoplasm. Suddenly, the out of character behavior was making a lot more sense. He stood, swiftly going for the phone. He wasn't going to be able to do this alone, he needed someone to stay with Sam and keep him safe and another to figure out their ghost and get rid of it. He was torn between calling one of his friends and calling Dean, who was the logical choice but who was also out on his own job. Hating himself for the stress he was able to put on his oldest son, he quickly dialed Bobby's number.

"Singer."

"Bobby, it's John."

"What's wrong?" Bobby asked, sounding much more alert than he had upon answering the call.

"I've got a situation here...Dean's out on a job with Caleb, and I'm going to need to get Dean back home. Do you think you can find someone to give Caleb a hand?"

"Of course. What's going on? Need an extra pair of hands, yourself?" Bobby pressed, leaving John overwhelmed with gratitude that even though the majority of his family was gone, his friends more than made up for the loss.

John glanced down the hall, sighing heavily, "I suppose it wouldn't hurt. Sam's being possessed by a ghost, I'm pretty sure."

"What?!"

"He's been acting strangely all day, but I assumed it was because he wasn't feeling well; the kid is as sick as a dog, but while he was sleeping I found ectoplasm." John said quietly, "I'm going to leave Dean with him while I do some research and try to get a name and a burial site."

"Balls!" Bobby growled out, "No ghost is getting it's claim on that kid if I have anything to say about it. I'm on my way, too."

Bobby hung up the phone and John took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. That call went well, as he expected it would, but this would be infinitely harder. He dialed Dean's number, closing his eyes and steadying himself for what he expected his son's reaction to be.

"Dad!" Dean said in greeting as he answered the phone, "Where are you? We expected to see you by now."

"I'm still at home, son. We've got a little situation." John began, wincing slightly as he thought he might have been able to phrase that better. He could hear Dean's sharp intake of breath and tensed, the increase in tension almost palpable even through the phone, "Don't panic, but I need you to come home. Now. Bobby's sending someone to help Caleb finish up."

"What's wrong with Sam?" Dean asked, his voice cold and angry, though John knew it was just masking the panic and concern that he could hear simmering just beneath the surface. When it came to showing emotion, he and Dean were cut from the same mold and anger was the default setting when it came to uncomfortable subjects.

"I have reason to believe he's being possessed by a ghost." John admitted, exhaling and running his hand through his hair, "And on top of that, he's really sick and I could use an pair of hands."

"Wait, what? He's sick? He was fine a few hours ago." Dean replied skeptically, "I would have known if he was coming down with something, I always know before he even does. And a ghost? What the fuck is going on over there?"

John sighed, not wanting to waste more time hashing this out but knowing this had unsettled Dean just as much as it had himself, so he decided to cut him a little slack instead of reprimanding him for his attitude, "I'll explain it all when you get here, just get here."

He hung up the phone and made his way back to his son, glad to see he was still asleep. The idea of any sort of spirit or monster having its claws, literally or not, in his child was unsettling and caused his heart to seize with dread and panic, but he knew he had to keep calm and not let on that he was aware of the situation since he didn't want the spirit to harm his son, nor force his son to harm others. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to pinpoint when this could have happened. It had to be when Sam was running today; Dean had said Sam was fine and things had started to go downhill shortly after that. He was familiar with the route that the kids took on their daily runs, and he could think of nothing that stuck out as a potential problem area. He didn't think it was the apartment either, since they had been here for awhile now and nothing like this had happened before. They were in a small town, with no real connections to anything out of the ordinary; John hadn't even worked a job in this particular town, he had just worked in the outlying areas. The only person Sam had really interacted with outside of his family was….Abby. Who was now dead. This wasn't good.

_Sam moaned slightly, his dreams morphing from emptiness to Abby once again, still looking beautiful and whole._

"_I'm sorry you're sick, Sam." Abby said gently, pressing herself against her boyfriend and laying her head on his chest, "I didn't want you to suffer, but I think it's going to be better in the long run."_

"_What do you mean?" Sam asked, feeling overwhelmed and confused, but thankfully not miserable like he had felt while he was awake. "What's going to be better?"_

"_I had to make it bad enough to where you wouldn't just try to deal with it on your own. I had to make you so weak that you would let him help you." Abby continued, "But it's working, can you feel it? You're relying on his strength and he is feeling protective and attached to you. Doesn't it feel good to have someone care for you? I'm making this happen for you, and when I am gone you will be able to grieve me with his help and his love. It's what parents are supposed to do; love and nurture and support."_

"_How? Why?" Sam asked, still not really understanding what she meant. _

_Abby hugged him tightly, "You and your dad fought constantly for the entire time I knew you. You told me once that your brother was more like a dad to you than your father. Everyone needs parents they can rely on, Sam, especially when you are going through something like the death of a loved one. You didn't want to trust him to help you, you were ashamed to show him emotion because you thought he would think of you as weak. You needed to learn that weakness isn't something to be ashamed of when it comes to your family, and your father needs to learn that you need him just as much as you need Dean. This was the only way."_

"_What was the only way, Abby? I don't understand."_

"_You're sick. You're miserable and falling apart and you're letting your dad help you and reaching out to him for comfort. He's giving you what you need without making you feel bad for needing it. It's exactly what I'm talking about; he's treating you like a parents treats their child. Doesn't it feel good inside? After I'm done and you're well again, he'll be there to comfort you about my death. Sam, if you don't let someone comfort you and you don't talk about it, it will consume you and you're going to drive yourself insane. This is my dying gift to you, Sam."_

"_But how are-"_

"_Don't worry about the details, just learn something, you stubborn boy."_

_The light around Abby began to fade, her image leaving with it, leaving Sam alone in the darkness, confused and frightened. What had she meant? What was she doing to him?_

When he awoke with a loud gasp seconds later, he had figured it out. He looked around the room, his heart racing with a panic that he couldn't quite place. Things still felt distorted and hazy and he was vaguely aware of someone holding him by the shoulders, keeping him from falling to the floor or rising to his feet. He fell back against his pillows, trying to make sense of what was happening around him. He had something important he needed to tell Dean. No, not Dean, Dad. He needed to talk to Dad and tell him what was happening to him, though all of a sudden he was having a hard time remembering the dream or what was happening. He knew it was important, though, and he had to fight the fog in his head to remember and tell someone about it. The room came completely into focus all of a sudden and Sam sat up, looking at his father with clarity that he hadn't felt all day, "Dad? I had a dream. It was important, I needed to tell you about Abby."

The minute he said her name, he felt himself slipping under again, everything sliding in and out of focus and his stomach churning as a result of the dizziness that had overtaken him. He had felt fine just a few seconds ago, and now felt worse than before. Sam realized his dad had his hands on his shoulders again, and he reached out, clinging to his father's arms, "Dad, something's really wrong."

"I know, Sam, I know." John soothed, pulling his son in for a tight hug. For a moment, it seemed like Sam had been coming out of it, which made John beam with pride. Clearly Sam had started putting pieces of this puzzle together as well and had started fighting back. He couldn't think of a moment where he had been more impressed and amazed by his intelligent, resilient child, and he couldn't wait to tell Bobby and Jim about this later, knowing they'd be equally impressed. "Don't worry about it right now, just try to rest. It's going to be okay, Sam, I promise."

John couldn't remember the last time he held Sam like this, but imagined it had been at least 10 years, probably more. He had missed out on so much of their childhoods and he'd never get that time back, it wasn't surprising that they tended to confide in each other more than they did him. He heard the door to the apartment slam shut and he took comfort in knowing Dean was there. He gently moved Sam back to his pillows, sensing the boy was asleep again, and carefully stood to meet Dean in the hallway.

"What's going on?"

"On the way to school he started feeling sick and his condition deteriorated quickly. I got him settled into bed and noticed ectoplasm coming from his ear. It's clearly a ghost, I'm thinking likely it's that Abby girl. I need you to find out where she's buried. I'll stay here with your brother."

"I can stay-" Dean broke off at John's stern look, then sighed, "Yes, sir. Can I look in on him first?"

"Sure." John said, patting Dean's shoulder, "I'm going to grab some coffee. He's been in and out of it, but he is asleep now."

Dean walked into the bedroom and sat down next to Sam, placing his hand on Sam's warm forehead with a frown. He hated to see his brother unwell, especially when he couldn't do anything about it. Sam's eyes fluttered open and Dean was able to watch as his unfocused and dilated pupils corrected themselves. Sam sat up, clearly thrilled to see his brother, "You jerk! You didn't even tell me bye before you left." He paused, then looked at Dean with a confused expression, "Dad said you'd be gone for days. Did I sleep for days?"

"No, I came home early because Dad said you were feeling pretty sick." Dean said smoothly before giving Sam a playful nudge and a smile, "But you don't look like you're sick to me, I bet you were faking it all along just to get me to come home."

Sam rolled his eyes, deadpanning, "Yeah, that's it. You caught me." He rubbed his eyes tiredly, but couldn't deny that he felt better in every way, "I did feel really bad earlier, I felt dizzy and my head hurt. I even threw up, it was terrible. But I feel okay now."

Dean winced sympathetically when Sam had said he'd been sick, knowing how much his kid brother loathed that particular bodily function, "Did Dad get you some saltines? Sprite? Tylenol?"

"I didn't need any of that stuff, I'm fine now." Sam brushed off Dean's concern, "I can't believe he called you. I guess he was tired of taking care of me. He probably thinks I'm a huge pain in the ass."

"Don't be ridiculous." Dean replied, his words light but his tone serious, "Dad doesn't think you're a pain in the ass, he was worried about you. He actually is sending me out to pick up supplies so he can stay with you because he wants to make sure you're okay. You're his kid, he worries about you."

"I'm _your_ kid." Sam replied petulantly, reminding Dean of a much younger version of the same boy, "I'm surprised he hasn't just taken me out back and shot me. He had to wipe puke and snot off my face, he probably hates me now."

"You're so stupid." Dean retorted, "That's what Dads do. You may be my kid, but you're still his kid too. He used to change your poopy diapers, you know. That's a lot worse than tidying you up when you're sick and miserable."

Sam could feel the now-familiar pull of his brain going out of whack again, and he moaned, covering his face with his hands, "It's happening again, Dean. You need to get Dad."

Dean darted out of the room, quickly relaying the message to their father, and then hurried out the door. He had research to do, he had to get to the bottom of this because he couldn't stand to watch his brother suffer. This had gone on too long already, and she needed to be stopped. Even if Sam hadn't told him basically that she was taking control again, he had seen the rapid shift in his brother's awareness and condition and if that was what his father had been dealing with all day, he couldn't wait to light the bitch and make her fry. No one was allowed to torment his brother like that, to make him worry about being an inconvenience when he legitimately needed help. It sent a pang of misery right to his soul to think that his brother thought so little of their father's feelings towards him, but he could see where Sam got the idea. Sam couldn't remember what Dad was like before the fire, and he didn't process emotions in the same way that their father did; if he had, he'd be able to see the hidden love in the actions and words of the hardened older man. Knowing their dad was right and Abby was probably the spirit hitching a ride with Sam, he headed to her place first, wanting to gather information from her parents and hoping nothing bad would happen while he was gone.

In the apartment, John steadied Sam by the shoulder with one hand, using the other hand to support Sam's forehead as the kid hunched over the small trash can in his room, only dry heaving but not wanting to take any chances. Once finished, he sank back down onto the mattress, digging his hand into his forehead to try and stop the stabbing pain, "Dad, please, make it stop."

"I'm doing everything I can, Sam." John replied quietly, desperation evident in his tone. He would give anything to take this away from his son, and he could only hope Dean was having some success digging up information on Abby.

Sam groaned, rolling onto his side and pushing his face against John's leg, which happened to be the closest thing to Sam's face at the time, "This sucks so bad. It wasn't bad enough that every minute of every day sucks out loud because I can't stop thinking of Abby, now I have to go through this too. It's not fair, I can't handle both. I feel like I'm dying."

"The only thing that is going to make you stop thinking about Abby is time. And even then, you'll probably think about her all the time, it'll just hurt less." John said quietly, stroking Sam's hair gently, "When I was in 9th grade, one of my friends passed away unexpectedly. It wasn't even a girlfriend, just a friend. He was riding his bike home from a friend's house and had a heart attack, some undiagnosed heart condition. It killed me inside...his desk was empty, mocking me every day during classes. I picked up the phone and dialed his number every day for months, just expecting him to be there. It took a long time to move on, and it's been 20+ years and I still think about him, I still miss him. The people you lose never completely go away, you'll keep your memories and one day it won't hurt too badly to think about them. Sometimes it takes a long time to get there."

He patted Sam's head gently, "It took years before I could think about your mother without wanting to eat my gun. Years after that before I felt comfortable talking about her even in the smallest increments. I still can't look at her picture without tearing up. But I can remember her now and not want to be dead alongside her. Sometimes that just has to be good enough. Even small steps add up to progress."

They were silent for a few minutes, Sam more soothed by his father's steady voice and presence than he would have ever thought possible. He supposed it was true, though, that if anyone understood what he was going through on any level it would be his dad. It was easier to accept comfort when he wasn't having to look his dad in the eye and see whatever emotion was exposed on the older man's face. His heart felt like it was breaking into a million pieces, just like it felt every time he faced the fact that this had really happened and she was really gone. He sniffed, then said quietly, "I see her in my dreams, Dad. She tells me it was my fault, she looks all torn up and bloody and she tells me I got her killed because she had been hanging out with me before and I didn't make sure she was safe. I failed to protect her. I killed her."

"Did you stab her?"

"No."

"Then you didn't kill her, first and foremost. Guilt is a tricky thing, Sammy. It's easy to say that you are to blame for something, but it's rarely the case. Every action, every sentence, every choice you make has a consequence and sets into motion a series of events. You can take any bad thing and somehow link those consequences together and make it your fault. Does that mean it's really your fault? Like, my friend for instance...if he had come to my house instead of another person's house, he would have been in a car instead of on his bike. Maybe his heart wouldn't have given out then. Does that make it my fault for not inviting him over?"

"No."

"Or your Mom…" John trailed off, lost in thought for a moment before continuing, "She had gone into your nursery to check on you. If I had heard you first and went to see about you, she wouldn't have been there. Does that make it my fault?"

"Of course not." Sam said quietly, patting his father's leg reassuringly as it seemed like his dad could use a little support of his own, "You couldn't have known."

"Exactly my point. You left Abby just like you always did, you had no way of knowing what would happen next. This isn't on you, Sam, do you understand me?"

Sam nodded, his father's strict no-nonsense tone acting as an anchor for the thought. If Dad had thought it was Sam's fault, he wouldn't have said it wasn't. Plain and simple, Dad wasn't known for sugar-coating things just to protect their feelings. Sam's breath hitched and he wasn't able to control the tears that were falling from his eyes in a mixture of relief and sorrow. Knowing that no one blamed him didn't make the pain of losing her hurt any less, but it did make it seem like a burden he could carry instead of one that would crush him. He cried silently into his dad's jeans for what felt like an eternity, until there were simply no more tears and his swollen eyes couldn't take the assault anymore. Once he pulled away, his head ached from the emotion but lacked the intense jackhammer stabbing pains from earlier. His mind was clearer as well, and finally he was able to think straight again. His eyes met John's and his cheeks turned pink from embarrassment, he couldn't remember the last time he had cried in front of his father.

John, on the other hand, had kept his hand in Sam's hair the entire time the boy cried against him, wishing he could do more to soothe the pain his son was feeling, his own eyes tearing up at his son's pain. He wanted to rant and rave and scream at someone; it wasn't fair that his son was having to experience this sort of heartache at this point in his life, he wanted someone to pay for making Sam hurt so deeply. He knew that there was no one he could place the blame on, though, and instead he fought his own tears and did the only thing he could do; provide comfort and an anchor in the storm. He may not have made all, or any, of the right choices with his boys throughout the years, but he never wanted them to hurt like Sam was hurting now, he would do anything to make things better for his boy.

When Sam pulled away, John studied his face carefully, but tried not to appear like he was staring. The boy's color was a lot better, though his eyes were red and swollen and his nose leaking like a broken faucet. His eyes looked tired, but more focused than they had for the majority of the day, and all in all it looked like the crying fit had done wonders for the boy's health. When Sam's cheeks started to flush with embarrassment, John patted his shoulder gently, "Let's call this our little secret, okay? We both got a little emotional, we both got some things off of our chests, but it doesn't have to leave this room? Alright? You can consider yourself even with Dean, now, since we had a moment like this a few years back."

"You don't think I'm pathetic?" Sam asked, rubbing his eyes, "Crying like a girl?"

"There's a few things worth crying over, son, and losing someone you care about is one of those things." John said firmly, "Don't let anyone ever tell you any differently. Never feel ashamed for feeling sad about losing someone; those emotions are what makes you human. If you didn't feel sad and mourn the death of another person, you'd be damaged inside." He stood, stretching slightly to appease the aching muscles in his back, then glanced down at Sam's pillow, grimacing at the black goo staining the white pillowcase.

"How are you feeling, Sam? Physically, at least? Your head, your stomach?" John asked casually, wondering if Dean had managed to finish off the ghost but not wanting to call and bother his son if he was still working it.

Sam smiled softly, relief evident on his features as he replied, "Much better. Aside from being tired from, you know, crying, I feel great." He frowned, then said uncertainly, "I think there's a chance that Abby was the one making me sick...I had these weird dreams…"

"I think she was doing more than that, son." John said, motioning to the goo and waiting for the dots to connect in his son's mind. At the look of disgust and horror that passed over Sam's features, John added, "But you're making a lot more sense now and I think it may be over."

"I can think a lot more clearly, now." Sam agreed, "And in my dreams she told me that she wanted me to talk to you about her, something about not bottling it up inside and how parents are there to help you get through the hard times. Maybe she got what she wanted and so she moved on?"

"Either that or your brother torched her ass." John replied, "She's right you know, it's in the job description."

"We're not a typical family."

"True, but it doesn't change the fact that there isn't much I would do for you and your brother. Just because we don't eat around the table together every night or do softball games or whatever these 'typical families' do, it doesn't mean that I don't care about you two just as much as any other parent cares about their children."

"Am I interrupting the mother-daughter period talk?" Dean said from the doorway, an eyebrow raised at the conversation he had just walked in on, "Anyone need me to make a tampon run?"

"Funny, Dean." John said, standing and shaking his head with a smirk. He walked to the door, then turned back to Sam, "I'm going to whip us up some food, you think you're up for it?"

"Are you cooking it?" Both boys asked in distaste, causing John to roll his eyes.

"I'll go pick something up." John replied, "Any special requests?"

"BLT?" Sam asked hopefully, smiling at his father with his most innocent expression that he often used on Dean to get his way.

John only grinned, shaking his head slightly, "Okay, I'll swing by the diner then. Burger and fries, Dean?"

"You got it."

John disappeared from view and Dean sat down, giving Sam a quick assessment, "You feeling better?"

"Yes, I'm fine."

"You had us worried, Sammy."

"Sorry." Sam apologized, though it wasn't his fault. He looked away, feeling uncomfortable that he had caused them so much grief today, "Didn't mean to."

"Don't do it again." Dean said gruffly, leaning over and ruffling Sam's hair lightly. He made a face, taking a step back, and added, "And for the love of all that is holy, go take a shower, you stink."

"_You_ stink." Sam retorted, standing and pushing his brother out of the way playfully as he walked by. Maybe Abby had been right and he had needed to get this out of his system, because he suddenly felt so much better than he had in weeks.

He took longer in the shower than he normally would, enjoying the hot water and it's relaxing effect. Things were really looking up, he had gained some insight to his father and they had the first actual bonding moment that he could remember. Dean was home and for now there were no hunts. He hadn't gone to school, so there was no homework. Perhaps he could even convince them to go to the arcade or the movies or something, he had an overwhelming desire to spend some time with his family now that he was feeling more normal again. Maybe he'd even make it the whole night without getting into an argument with anyone.

"Sam Winchester! Have you been _drinking_?!" his father's voice bellowed down the hallway, sounding more furious than he had ever sounded while talking to Sam before.

Or perhaps things would just continue on like normal.


	7. Chapter 6

_**-Time for some Stanford-Sam and Jess! H/C and Feelings all around. Features Sam, Jess, Dean, John with a splash of Bobby and is probably the longest thing I've ever written. Please let me know your thoughts!-**_

Sam didn't typically have a violent temper, so when he stormed into the apartment and promptly threw his cell phone violently at the wall, pieces scattering from the living room all the way into the hallway, Jess was both surprised and frightened. She knew that Sam was a large guy, secretive and sometimes moody, but she was pretty sure he had a gentle heart. The way he smiled at her, doted on her, listened to her...it all screamed 'awesome keeper' instead of 'scary creeper'. Still, the look of absolute rage on his face was enough to have her bracing herself out of fear.

In his defense, Sam didn't even seem to realize she was there, which was both a relief to the petite blonde but also another red flag; it meant that she wasn't the source of his anger, but it also meant that there was a side of him that she just didn't know. After the initial flare, though, Sam staggered to the sofa, falling heavily to the worn cushion and dropping his head into his hands. It was only then that the fear Jessica had briefly felt fully evaporated and was replaced with concern; something was not right with her boyfriend.

She put down the textbook she had been reading and moved to sit by him, placing a gentle hand on his knee, "What's wrong, Sam?"

"It's nothing." Sam sighed, head still down. Jess kept her hand on his knee, waiting. They had only been dating for a year, but Sam Winchester could be an open book at times. She knew that if she gave him a few minutes, he'd probably spill his guts. At least, that's the way it worked when he was stressed out from finals, when he had tried to work up the nerve to ask her to move in together and when he was devastated that he had failed an exam that he spent an entire weekend staying awake studying for. She couldn't think of much else that could be wrong; they spent most of their waking time together and he had just been in class. None of their friends could have pissed him off, because they had all been in class. He had no family to call and upset him, because they weren't really close. It wasn't a day that he was scheduled to work, so it couldn't be a work issue. It had to be something minor that he was blowing out of proportion, but then again, that didn't really sound like Sam, either.

Jess resisted the urge to try and coax the information out of him, knowing she had to give the 'silent support' approach time for it to work before resorting to other methods, and after a few _long_ minutes had passed, Sam turned his head slightly in her direction, one eye peeking out over the edge of his fingers, which were blocking the rest of his face.

"It's my brother." Sam said reluctantly, knowing he owed his girlfriend an explanation after barging in like a psychopath and leaving a dent in the wall from the impact with his Nokia, "Well, no, it's actually my father, but also my brother...it's a long story."

"I've got time." Jess said softly, using just one finger to lightly caress Sam's knee in an attempt to keep him calm and talking, "Did you call them?"

Sam laughed, though it was much more bitter than the laughter he normally had around his girlfriend, and uncovered his face, rubbing his hand over his face in the same way that his older brother often did, though he didn't even realize he was doing so. He shifted so he was leaning against the back of the sofa, his head tilted back so he was staring at the ceiling. He didn't trust himself not to get misty-eyed, and he surely didn't want to show that sort of vulnerability in front of Jessica at the moment. Rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, he answered, "No, I didn't call them. That's never going to happen. My brother, he called me. He does, sometimes...not really often, but occasionally he checks in to see if I'm still alive."

"And it didn't go well?"

"No, my brother and my father are reckless idiots with a death wish." Sam retorted dryly, "They get stupid ideas and without someone there to remind them that they're not invincible, they go off half-cocked and irresponsible and one day they're going to find out the hard way that they're not immortal."

Jess raised an eyebrow, not really knowing what to make of Sam's declaration, but finding it harsh nonetheless. She leaned against him, resting her head against his side and asking, "What are they doing that's so bad that it's got you so scared?"

"I'm not scared."

Jessica remained silent, and after a few moments she heard Sam mutter, "Well, maybe a little scared…"

"You can be distant from your family and still love and worry about them, Sam." Jess reasoned, though she knew that worrying and loving his family wasn't the issue, since those feelings were practically oozing from her boyfriend at the moment, "It's okay to be scared. And it's okay to tell them that they're being reckless, if that's how you really feel, even if you aren't there to tell them in person."

"Oh, I told him." Sam said with another bitter laugh, "He wasn't too thrilled for me to provide my input where it wasn't requested, but I didn't really give him a choice." He brought an arm around Jess, feeling calmer now that she was with him. Since they had started dating, she was like his anchor in the storm, the one tangible thing that made this decision to go away to school worth it. He loved the classes, the freedom, the normalcy of it all, but she was the shiny bow on the top of the package that reminded him daily that he made the right choice by settling down and getting out of the life.

"So you two fought, then?" Jess asked, curiosity getting the better of her. Sam rarely talked about his family, but occasionally he did bring up his brother and it was obvious that they had been very close. She enjoyed hearing about him, especially seeing how important he was to Sam even if Sam didn't want to admit it, but was always hesitant to ask because of how closed off Sam was about his family.

Sam nodded, remembering the heated exchange and regretting some of the things he had said after Dean had gotten his temper ignited, "That would be putting it mildly. Dean doesn't like being told what to do, and he doesn't like it when I say I'm worried about him or something they may be doing. He doesn't like me to tell him he's reckless when he's actually being reckless and he doesn't think I get to have a say in anything they do because I left them to come here. He doesn't like my opinions about our dad, he doesn't really like any opinion I have if it isn't the same as his. He's impossible."

"He sounds just like you." Jess laughed, "I mean, absolutely just like you."

"Shut up." Sam replied, though there was no heat in his words. "I'm nothing like him, I-"

"You don't like being wrong." Jess interrupted, "You don't like when other people don't have the same opinion as you...well, sometimes. You're open minded, but when you decide you're right you stick to it and dismiss everyone else's opinion on the subject unless they provide really compelling evidence to the contrary. You are sometimes reckless and don't like being told to reign it in. You don't like people worrying over you. Shall I continue?"

"I'm not reckless." Sam huffed, sitting up slightly to look at Jessica, who was clearly trying to control her amusement at the situation, "I'm not!"

"Maybe not 'guns blazing' reckless, but reckless in your own right. You're reckless with your health at times; staying up for days at a time and living off of caffeine alone, getting in between crazy people in a bar fight? Or how about the semester you tried to take 24 hours and hold a part-time job; that was a whole different kind of reckless but still reckless."

"That's not reckless, it's necessary." Sam argued, though they both knew she had a point and had won this around. "Whatever, I'm just saying that he doesn't think before he acts and one day it's going to get him killed."

Jess was dying to ask what Sam's family was doing that Sam considered so reckless, but knew she wouldn't get a straight answer; he always seemed to evade the topic of his family unless it was on a superficial level such as today. She wondered what exactly had happened that made Sam walk away without looking back, knowing that whatever it was had hurt the young man immensely. There was no denying the pain in his eyes when his family was brought up, but Sam had always been very closed off on the subject and she wanted to respect his privacy. Instead, she asked, "Did you tell it to him just like that?"

Sam nodded, muttering, "It was stupid. I just can't believe we got into a fight when we hadn't spoken in five months. He may never call again."

"You can always call him." Jess pointed out, though she knew he would never do that. One of the few things Sam had confided to her was that his family had told him that if he was leaving, he couldn't come back, and Sam had taken that line seriously. Jess was pretty sure that no parent would actually say that to their child and mean it, but Sam insisted that when his father made a threat, he always stuck by it and there was no convincing Sam otherwise. "You know, apologize?"

"He probably wouldn't even answer." Sam replied dejectedly, rubbing his hands over his eyes. Between classes and working and now fighting with Dean he was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to go to bed. Too bad it was only 4 in the afternoon.

Jessica stood and walked around the room, retrieving bits and pieces of the phone and snapping them back together, relieved that Sam had a simple phone that was made for being rough with and not a more delicate or expensive phone that would have been inoperable. She pushed the power button, then placed the phone in Sam's hand, "You don't know until you try."

"I don't want him to not answer."

Jess kissed Sam lightly on the forehead, tugging on a strand of hair gently as she tried to reassure him, "You already think he won't answer, what's the worst that can happen? If he does answer, you apologize and try not to fight with him again. Be rational, use some of those public speaking skills you learned last semester to stay in control of the conversation. If he doesn't answer, so what? He will at least know you tried, and sometimes just trying can make all the difference."

"I hate when you're right."

"You love me anyway." Jess teased, kissing him once more before stepping back, "I've got to go to biology study group at the library. Call me when you're done? I will keep my phone on."

"Sure." Sam agreed, waiting for her to leave the apartment before staring down at his phone apprehensively. He didn't want to make the call and not have it answered; he didn't need that sort of affirmation that Dean hated him and didn't want to speak to him again. Jess did have a point, though, he did want Dean to know he cared enough to make the effort. What if Dean was feeling just as guilty about their screaming match as he was? What if Dean wanted to call but didn't want to go through the rejection of not being answered? Sam sighed, shaking his head slightly. Dean wouldn't have put that much thought into it; it was highly unlikely that Dean was sitting around like a girl lamenting over a stupid argument. It was much more likely that Dean had hit something or someone and was stewing angrily over a beer. His 24 year old brother was many things, but soft was not one of them.

Knowing Jess would be interrogating him about it later and not wanting to have to explain any of this to her, Sam mustered up the energy and courage to dial the familiar number. He held his breath as it rang once, twice and then three times before a connection was made.

"What's wrong, Sammy?" Dean's voice came across the line, sounding more alarmed than Sam had heard his brother sound in years. Sam could reasonably guess that it was because Sam hadn't called Dean at all since he'd been gone, so his brother automatically jumped to the wrong conclusion.

Sam let out the breath he had been holding, relieved that Dean had answered and wanting to quickly reassure him that nothing was wrong, "I'm fine, Dean. Nothing's wrong. I just..I, uh.." Sam paused, realizing how ridiculous this phone call actually was. Why had he let Jess convince him to do this, again?

"Missed the sound of my voice?" Dean asked, a trace of amusement in his words now that the worry was gone.

Sam grinned, knowing by Dean's tone that everything was okay between them, and he admitted the real reason he was calling, "No, I was just calling to apologize for being a dick earlier."

"You called to _apologize,_ Princess?" Dean teased, "Is it your time of the month? Are you feeling a little hormonal?"

Cheeks flushing red, Sam was silent for a few seconds, completely unable to think of a comeback. Dean had him in a corner, this was an exceptionally girly thing to do. He'd never live this down. "Shut up, Dean...my girlfriend, she thought…I just wanted to make sure things were good between us before you went out on the hunt tonight."

"Right, 'your girlfriend' thought," Dean continued to taunt, "Dude, what is that school doing to you?" He paused, absorbing what Sam had said, and then asked incredulously, refusing to be pulled into a heartfelt speech, "Is this the 'if you die?' speech? Really, Sam? You called me for the goodbye speech?"

"Shut up." Sam retorted, knowing he was going to make no progress with Dean during this conversation, "It's not the death speech. I just wanted to make sure we're good. Stop being a jerk."

"Stop being a girly bitch, then." Dean replied, the smirk he wore evident in his voice, "We're good, Sam. If I bite the big one, your conscience will be clear. Do you need anything else? Some warm milk? Maybe a bedtime story? Your paci?"

"Real funny." Sam complained, though there was no real annoyance behind his words. He was just relieved that his brother wasn't holding a grudge and that they were okay. Perhaps he had overreacted, but this was the first time he and Dean had argued since Sam had left for Stanford, bringing up a lot of insecurity and hurt feelings that Sam had thought he'd buried far enough down to escape. His father's voice echoed in his head, reminding him that he had no say, no claim on their family anymore after he abandoned them. He felt sort of foolish, now, for thinking that this would ever be a good idea. With a sigh, he told Dean, "I don't want to keep you, I know you're getting ready to head out. I just wanted to make sure we were good; I don't care how that makes me sound."

"We're good, Sam." Dean reassured his brother, this time with total seriousness, "Don't you worry about me...focus on your school crap and your girlfriend and don't even think about this anymore. It's going to take more than a stupid argument to make us _not_ alright. We've got this; let us do what we're good at and you go study or whatever you do for fun in California."

"Just-Just be safe." Sam replied, about to ask Dean to let him know how the hunt went when his phone beeped, Jessica's number flashing across the screen, "Dean, that's Jess, I've got to go. I'll catch you later."

"Later." Dean replied, disconnecting the call.

"Hey, Jess." Sam said after switching calls, "Everything alright?"

"Yeah, just checking on you." Jess replied cheerfully, "After our study group, everyone is going to head over to Patrick's house for drinks, cards and maybe some karaoke. Want to come?"

Sam was about to decline, but then again the idea of spending the night cooped up in the apartment, thinking about his dad and brother, sounded miserable. Holding the phone to the ear with his shoulder, he stood and stretched his back out, "Yeah, that sounds great. I actually need to pick up a book from the library, so why don't I meet you guys down there? I don't mind hanging out for the study session."

"Great!" Jess replied happily, and Sam heard her cover the mouthpiece with her hand and tell the group, "Hey guys, Sam's going to come hang out with us too."

Sam was glad he joined Jess and their friends, by the time they returned to their apartment at 3:45 am he was feeling relaxed and free, a few beers having dulled his senses enough to make everything seem minor and funny. Jess had indulged a bit more, and kept stumbling over her feet, laughing harder every time, and Sam was finding it hard not to join in. It wasn't often that Sam really kicked back and lived the 'college scene'. He was enrolled on a scholarship and couldn't afford for anything to distract him from his studies; there was no way he could afford Stanford on his own and even if his family hadn't washed their hands of him, there's no way they'd be able to cough up the money for it either. It wasn't just the money, either, he was just not a very social person and he preferred to hang out at the apartment with Jess or bury himself in his books. He supposed it was a product of the way he was raised. The group they had been hanging out with after the study club was relatively small, just four others aside from Jess and Sam, but it wasn't uncommon for Jess to spend time in a group of 15 or 20 people and that was just too crowded for Sam. Thankfully, she understood his loner status and never pressured him to do anything he didn't feel comfortable with.

Fumbling with the keys to his apartment, he tried to insert the key with one hand while using the other to steady Jess, who had picked that moment to start swaying alarmingly. He dropped the keys, and tried to hold on to Jess and bend down to pick them up at the same time, but with his long legs and torso it was much harder to reach the ground while still supporting another person. Clumsily, they both tumbled onto the ground, laughing hysterically at the absurdity of the situation. Sam pulled himself back to his feet, then reached out to pull Jessica up as well, swearing quietly as the keys fell out of his grasp again.

Jess bent down to retrieve them this time, laughing while jiggling them in Sam's direction teasingly. She managed to open the apartment and they both entered, Sam kicking off his shoes in the living room entrance instead of putting them up like he normally would. It was late, they were tired and giddy and he just didn't have the energy to do anything at the moment. Stripping down to boxers, he flopped down on the bed and waited for Jess to join him, not bothering with pajama pants. If things went as he hoped they would, he wouldn't need them quite yet. As if reading his mind, Jess appeared in the doorway just a few minutes later, her button-down shirt open, underwear and bra showing with nothing else on. Sam grinned appreciatively, pushing himself up on his elbows to enjoy the view a little more. Jess knelt down on the bed, straddling Sam's legs and bending over to kiss his stomach gently, but the moment was ruined by the ringing of Sam's cell phone.

"I'm going to throw the damn thing against the wall." Jess stated plainly, rolling off of Sam and searching around for the ringing phone, "Talk about bad timing-"

"It could be one of our friends," Sam reminded her, "Someone could have run into trouble."

"Sure, be reasonable." Jess joked, handing him the phone from the bedside table, "Make it quick, we have...stuff...to do."

Sam's smile quickly faded when he saw the number on his phone, his blood turning to ice. He sat up, answering the phone with a tone of barely-controlled panic, "What happened?"

"Hey, Sam…"

"What's wrong?" Sam snapped, jumping out of bed and gathering his discarded clothes, dressing quicker than he ever had in his life, "Where are you guys? How bad is it?"

John's voice was gruff and Sam knew his father was dreading this call without even having to see his father's expression, "There's been an accident, the hunt went bad. We were unprepared; we thought we were dealing with something else-"

"I told Dean you needed to do more research!" Sam shouted, panic firmly settling in his chest at his father's admission. If Dad was calling and not Dean, it had to be bad. "Where are you? I'm on my way."

"You don't need to come-"

"Of course I'm coming!" Sam retorted, his worry coming out as anger in a way that was so like Dean that it made his heart ache for his brother, "Now where are you? Is he even alive?"

"We're in Nevada, Carson City. He's in pretty bad shape, Sam." John admitted, and Sam could envision his father scrubbing at his face, trying to reign in his emotions. "He took a beating from a Gueridia and is in the ICU."

Sam swore loudly, grabbing his keys and heading for the door, completely forgetting about Jess until she grabbed him by the arm with a concerned and confused expression. Into his phone, he barked, "I'll be there in four hours or less."

Sam hung up the phone and then turned to Jess, surprised to see she had gotten dressed as well. He flashed her an apologetic smile and then leaned forward to kiss her forehead, "My brother's in bad shape, I've got to head out to Nevada. I'm sorry, Jess, I know this seems crazy, but he needs me."

"I'm going with you, then." Jess replied, reaching around her boyfriend to grab her purse off of the nearby table, "Look at you, you're a mess...you can't drive alone when you're upset like this."

"I'll be fine. You really should stay-"

"It's not up for discussion." Jess insisted, "You stayed with me the entire time my mom was in the hospital after her heart attack, this is me doing the same for you. This is what you do for the people you love, Sam."

Sam walked out the front door, not too surprised when Jess followed, and as he took the stairwell at marathon speeds, he told her, "I just think it's a bad idea. My family isn't like other families, Jess, my father is...well...he can be a dick sometimes and he's already going to be pissed he has to deal with me, much less if I bring someone else along…"

"I'm coming, Sam." Jess said firmly. They reached the car, and she stopped beside him as he reached for the door handle, reaching up and touching his cheek lightly, "I don't care if your father is a complete monster. I don't care if he rips me a new one or if I have to sit in the hall the entire time. One, you're in no shape to be driving at all since you've been drinking. Two, you've been awake for nearly 24 hours and combined with the alcohol, you're going to be getting pretty tired on a monotonous drive. Three, your brother is important to you and therefore he's important to me. Most importantly, no one should have to be in a position to face this sort of thing alone, Sam. If your dad doesn't want you there, it doesn't seem like he'll be supportive. You need someone on your side, Sam, and I'm going to be that person. I'll give you all the space you need when we get there, but I'm still going."

Sam leaned down to kiss her gently, his hands in her hair. He pressed their foreheads together, whispering, "Thank you."

"I love you, you moron." Jess replied with a smile, "You don't have to thank me for anything."

They made the four and a half hour drive in three hours and fifteen minutes, and by the time they got there both Sam and Jess were a bundle of nerves. Sam, because as time passed his worry for his brother grew exponentially as did his apprehension about having to face his father again. Jess, because Sam's foot had stayed firmly pressed against the accelerator for the duration of the trip and she had been certain in some points that they were going to die a dramatic, explosive death after a horrific crash.

Sam pulled into the parking lot of the hospital, turning off the engine with a sense of foreboding. Every instinct told him to get as far away from there as possible, though he knew that he needed to lay eyes on his brother just in case Dean didn't get better. Just the idea of Dean not healing was enough to send Sam's mind reeling, and he put his arms across the steering wheel, burying his face into them while taking a few steadying breaths. It would do no good to think about the worst case scenario, and he didn't even want to think about a world without his older brother in it. He felt Jess's hand on his shoulder, but remained silent, trying to pull himself together enough to walk in to the hospital, face his father, face the image of his broken brother and not completely lose it in front of his girl.

It took nearly five minutes before he was ready, but as soon as he made up his mind that he was not going to fall apart, the last little bit of the buzzed feeling he'd been feeling since hanging out with his friends evaporated and he put up a barrier to keep his emotions reigned in. He looked at Jess, who looked as tired as he felt but was being incredibly fantastic about the whole situation, and asked, "You ready?"

"If you are." she replied, "Do you want to go in alone, first? I can wait in the lobby or something?"

Sam shook his head and got out of the car, walking around to open the door for Jess and then wrapped an arm around her, drawing strength from her calming presence before he led them towards the entry doors. He didn't want to see his brother this way. He knew that if Dad had called, it had to be really bad, and he had never seen Dean in a position where their father was worried for his life. He never wanted to; he wanted Dean to outlive him, he never wanted to live in a world where his big brother wasn't a phone call away. By the time they got to the elevators, he was slightly trembling despite his promise to maintain control of himself. Jess was kind enough not to mention it, but she did tighten her grip on him in a silent show of support. The ICU was on the 5th floor, and the elevator was the slowest moving contraption in the history of machines. By the time they reached their destination, Sam was impatiently tapping his foot on the ground, his fingers twisted in the soft cotton of Jess's sweater. He let go as the doors opened, but took her by the hand for both reassurance and as a show of unity. He had a feeling her presence wouldn't be well-received by his father.

Sam immediately spotted his father when he stepped off the elevator, the older man's presence echoing like a beacon, drawing his attention to the one very spot with no effort whatsoever. Sam wasted no time crossing the distance of the reception area and the angled hallway, and stopped in front of his father, unsure of what to say.

"Hey, Sam." John said gruffly, emotion that Sam couldn't quite read on his face, "You made good time."

"It's Dean." Sam said simply, as if that explained everything. Perhaps it did, because his father nodded grimly. Sam pulled Jess a step closer, looking from his father to his girlfriend and said quietly, unsure of the reaction he'd receive, "Dad, this is my girlfriend, Jessica. Jess, this is my Dad, John."

Sam didn't bother with a last name, assuming that whatever name Dean was admitted under was not 'Winchester' and not up for explaining insurance fraud to his straight-laced girlfriend. He watched, holding his breath as John looked Jess from head to toe, and then exhaled deeply when John shook out his hand.

"Pleasure to meet you, Jessica."

"The pleasure's mine." Jess replied, though her tone wasn't as welcoming as it generally was when meeting someone for the first time. Sam had to assume that it was because of him and the few stories she had heard about the huge fight they had before he left for Stanford. His suspicions were confirmed when she added, "You have a wonderful son; he is truly a remarkable human being. Of course, I'm sure you already know that."

Sam recognized the slight shift in her tone of voice as being the tone she used when she was passively aggressively trying to right a wrong but not wanting to completely overstep her place. He put an arm around her shoulder in an attempt to shut her up, knowing his father would immediately see what she was up to and while Sam didn't think he'd cause a scene in the middle of the hallway, he didn't particularly want to find out. Before either his girlfriend or his father could speak, Sam interjected, "Tell me about Dean."

John looked from Sam to Jess, as if he was trying to calculate what he should and would say in front of the outsider. Realizing the dilemma, Sam wished he had sent Jess away for coffee or something so they could have gotten through this part without an audience. He wanted, no, he needed to know all of the details, not the censored version that was fabricated for the hospital staff and/or police. Hating himself for doing it, he put on his most pitiful face and put a hand to his forehead as if he were in a bit of pain. He groaned slightly, then asked Jess, "Hey, baby? Could you run and get me a coffee? My head is killing me."

He hated to play on her sympathy, but he knew it would be a lot easier to get some solitude with his father if she thought she was helping than if she thought he was shutting her out. He didn't want Jess to think he didn't want her around while they discussed Dean, but he needed to know the truth and there was no way he was going to expose her to the life he used to live. Jess's face was full of compassion with the slightest twinge of concern as she agreed and quickly left in search of a coffee machine. Sam let his hand fall, knowing they didn't exactly have much time, and asked his father urgently, "What happened?"

John raised an eyebrow at the exchange between Jess and Sam, clearly wanting to say something but as soon as Sam spoke his expression hardened and he went back into business mode, "We thought we were hunting a werewolf, all of the signs pointed to one. Turns out it was a Gueridia and you know silver don't do shit to them. He jumped Dean before we even realized what was happening, the shot just pissed it off. By the time I found the iron in our weapons bag, a lot of damage had been done. Dean's pretty torn up; deep cuts from the claws, the bites. A nasty concussion and a skull fracture from where he hit his head going down, broken ribs and lung trauma from the impact. He-He looks like crap and I'd like to say it looks worse than it is, but that's not really the case this time, Sam."

"How do you confuse a Gueridia and a werewolf?" Sam snapped, anger flooding through him in waves so powerful that he was starting to scare himself. He knew that questioning the hunt was the least of their worries right now, but it was so much easier to be mad at Dad and Dean than to absorb what his father was telling him. The rational part of his brain was telling him to shut up and go be with his brother, but the fueled up, terrified, exhausted and angry part of his brain was reminding him that picking a fight with his father would keep him from having to see his brother in such bad shape, to prolong having to actually lay his own eyes on his brother and make this a reality. His stomach churned unpleasantly at the idea of seeing his brother after he had been mauled, and he decided to listen to the slightly more unbalanced side of his brain. "I told Dean you guys needed to do more research, that it just didn't make sense, but no one ever takes me seriously! Dean's fighting for his life, Dad, all because you couldn't just stop and listen to reason. You never listen! You think you know everything about everything and now this is on you. If Dean dies, it will be your-"

Sam's statement was cut off by his father's fist connecting with his mouth. For a moment, the two stood nose-to-nose in the hallway, furious and barely under control. Sam's own fist clenched; he had never raised his hand to his father, but there was always a first time for everything.

"Don't you dare!" John said in a quiet, menacing tone. The oldest Winchester didn't need to rely on shouting to be intimidating, evident as his son immediately deflated partially at the tone, "You abandoned this family, you turned your backs on us and left. You have no right to criticize how we hunt when you wanted nothing to do with the life. You want to obsess over research and plan every detail of our jobs? You lost that right when you walked out on us."

"I didn't walk out, you forced me to leave!"

"You're the one who wanted out in the first place." John reminded his son harshly, "I can't believe you; you claim to love your brother and you came all the way down here to what? Throw around some blame and yell at me? You couldn't do that on the phone, Sam?"

At those words, Sam stilled, a haunted look passing over his face before he adopted a more neutral expression. He hated to admit it, but his father was right; this wasn't what needed to be happening, he needed to be helping Dean and not playing the blame game and making a scene. He looked down, unable to meet his father's gaze now that the majority of his anger had flickered out, "Sorry, sir. Can I go in to see him?"

John moved out of the doorway and Sam took a step towards the entrance, stopping only when he heard Jess call his name from behind. He looked back at her, recognizing her silent question of if he wanted her to come with him, he nodded and she crossed the gap between them, taking his hand into her own and squeezing it tightly. Sam closed his eyes for a second, taking a deep breath, then exhaled heavily, forcing himself to open his eyes and enter the room.

The minute he laid eyes on Dean, Sam forgot how to breathe. He forgot how to blink, how to walk, how to speak and how to think. He couldn't look away, even though the sight of his brother made his heart race and his stomach churn with dread. The entire world came to a screeching halt and the only two things left were his barely functioning brain and his unresponsive big brother. This could not be happening.

Somehow he made his way across the room and to his brother's side, gently taking Dean's bruised hand into his own, taking great care not to disturb the wires or cause him any pain. He drew in a breath, the air burning as he inhaled, and realized that he had been holding his breath. As his oxygen made its way to his brain, he became aware of Jess's hand on his back, tapping him not-so-gently and telling him to breathe before he passed out. Once he got his breathing under control, the rest of his senses started returning as well and he finally began to hear the beeping of the machines, the wooshing of the ventilator, the dripping of the IV liquids. He could smell the antiseptic mixed with blood, the tangy scent familiar and excruciatingly painful. He could taste his own blood, where he had bit his lip so hard that he had broken through several layers of skin in his mouth. His could feel the tears that he hadn't even realized were present spilling onto his cheeks, and his sniffed slightly to keep snot from running from his nose. A tissue was passed into his hands and he scrubbed it against his face with a shuddering breath. He had experienced some really unsettling moments in his lifetime, but this was a million times worse than anything that he could have ever imagined.

"Sam?" Jess asked quietly, rubbing his arm gently, "Are you hearing me?"

Sam glanced at her, seeing the tears in her eyes and realizing that she had probably been trying to get his attention for the last few minutes with no success. He sniffed loudly, his voice shaking when he spoke, "Jess...this is my brother, Dean. He...well, he usually looks a lot better than this." He glanced at Dean, flinching, then turned his eyes back to Jess. It hurt too much to look at Dean, his brain wasn't having much success processing what was happening here.

Dean's face was swollen, his skin grey in the few places that weren't colored blue, purple and black. There were four deep gashes that had been stitched, one on his forehead and three in a line on his cheek. Sam had been out of the hunting life for almost two years, but he was still able to immediately recognize claw marks. Both eyes were completely swollen shut and his cheeks and nose were swollen so much that Sam wasn't entirely sure the ventilator wasn't being used just because his nose holes were so tiny that he couldn't inhale. His lips were chapped and dry, colored a disturbing shade of purple. A thick bandage was wrapped around his head concealing even more injuries.

The look on Jess's face was the final straw that broke the proverbial camel's back, her eyes watery and her expression filled with concern and sympathy for someone she didn't even know. He wasn't sure if the emotion that exploded from him was a result of her compassion or the fact that his brother looked so terrible that someone who was a stranger to him could even look so miserable on his behalf, but regardless of the reason, part the dam holding back Sam's emotions crumbled and he took a few steps back, sinking into a chair and burying his face in his hands. Silent tears streamed down his cheek; it was taking everything he had to hold back gut wrenching, ugly sobs that were trying to break loose. He wasn't going to lose control like that, not here and not now.

Jess rubbed his back gently, whispering soothing words though Sam was not really hearing anything through his grief. How could someone so broken possibly survive? If he did survive, would he even be the same Dean? He abruptly stood, his tears drying as the stubborn part of his mind took control. He swiftly moved back to Dean's side, his thumb gently brushing over his older brother's hand. "I'm going to find a way to fix this, Dean. I'll leave no stone unturned, I will contact everyone I know and then find more resources until I get ahold of someone who can help. Just hang on and keep fighting and believe me when I say I will fix you, man. Now it is time for me to take care of you, so just hang in there and let me do it."

Sam brushed away the wetness on his cheeks, forcing the agonizing waves of sadness and anxiety back as he began to mentally catalogue where to start looking for answers. Obviously, begin with their closest circle of friends; Bobby, Jim, Caleb and Joshua. He could build resources from them and reach out to the hunting community as a whole to see if there was some magic cure, some way to reverse the injury from a monster attack. If that didn't work, there were witches, hoodoo, shamans, healers. Someone had to be the real deal and everyone had their price; he was willing to pay anything. He cleared his throat, turning to Jess with no way to explain any of this to her other than to tell her the truth.

"Jess, I-"

"Sam's going to take you home." John interrupted from the doorway, the expression on his face telling Sam that he knew what his son was up to and he disapproved.

Unfortunately for John, Sam was used to his father's disapproval and disappointment, and he shook his head, retorting angrily, "No, I'm not. Not yet. We're going to get a hotel room and I'm going to do some research on his...condition. I don't expect you've done the same; we've already established you are incapable of gathering accurate and important information."

John's expression was lethal and Sam knew he had crossed a line but was too upset to really care at the moment. There would be plenty of time for regrets later, but right now he needed to stop being treated like a child and get to work. John took a few steps towards Sam, crossing a bit of distance in just a few strides, his anger filling the room with its presence. Sam wasted no time bridging the gap between them, rising to full height, his chest heaving with emotion. He was just as furious as his father looked, both out of anger that Dean had been hurt and the rapid conversion of fear to fury.

"I'd suggest you take yourself out of here before I do something I will regret." John said in a dangerous tone, "You don't even belong here, you're no longer part of our family. You abandoned us and look what happened!"

"Me?" Sam asked incredulously, his temper further getting pushed to the edge by his father's words, "_You're_ the one who closed that door. _You're_ the one who is responsible for this. Don't you dare try to pin any of this on _me_!"

"Woah, woah…" Jess interjected, unable to watch this go on any further for fear that one or both of them would start throwing punches, "I know you're both angry and have a lot of unresolved issues, but this isn't what Dean needs right now."

John didn't even bother looking in the petite blonde's direction before dismissing her with, "Listen, you don't know shit when it comes to my kids and my don't even belong here. Neither of you."

"Don't talk to her like that!" Sam replied venomously, his voice rising slightly as he took another step towards his father, "We have every right to be here-"

"Enough!" Jess shouted, throwing her arms apart to keep the two men separated, "Sam, you've had a long week and an even longer night. You're tired and you're scared; don't say something you'll regret. Let's get a hotel, get some rest, take a shower and calm down. After you're feeling more like yourself, we can come back."

"I'm fine." Sam replied automatically, his eyes still locked on his father, "I want to stay here with Dean."

"Dean wouldn't want to see you and your dad fighting like this." Jess reasoned, "And you two getting into it won't help him heal any faster. You both need a break from each other. There are a lot of unresolved issues, but this isn't the time or the place to hash them out, Sam." She turned to her boyfriend and put her hand against his cheek softly, "If you would just calm down for a minute and think about this, you'd realize I'm right."

The most annoying part was that Sam did know she was right, and therefore had to give in and be reasonable. With a look at his father that clearly said that this wasn't over, Sam went back to Dean's bedside, whispering quietly that he would be back later, and then followed Jess to the door. He half-expected his father to take a swing at him again, or perhaps shout out obscenities and threats, but instead John just took a step back, letting Sam pass without a word. The elevator ride to the first floor and the walk to the car was silent, Sam not even noticing the worried looks Jess was throwing in his direction.

When they got to the car, Jess held out her hand expectantly for the keys and Sam turned them over with no protest, walking to the passenger side and sitting down, his head resting against the window as she turned on the car, fiddling with the seat position, mirrors and radio. They had driven nearly two blocks before Jess broke the silence.

"I'm sorry."

"Come again?" Sam asked, glancing in her direction with a confused expression.

Jess sighed, tapping her fingers against the steering wheel as she often did when she was nervous, "I overstepped my boundaries. It was none of my business...you guys looked like you wanted to beat the crap out of each other and I just knew you would regret it if you got into a huge knock-down, drag-out fight and got yourself kicked out of the hospital. I tried not to get involved, but I guess I'm not very good at sitting by idly."

Sam turned to face her, his eyes wet with tears for a few moments before he reigned them back. He had no idea how he had gotten lucky enough to have such a wonderful girlfriend, but he had really hit the jackpot when it came to Jess. "You didn't overstep." He cleared his throat, his cheeks tinged pink as he admitted, "You're right, actually. My dad and I, uh, we tend to react to each other in the worst way possible at any given moment. We can barely exchange pleasantries without getting into it, and when something major is happening like this, it brings out the worst in both of us. If you hadn't intervened, we would have probably not just been kicked out of the hospital, but arrested as well. And it wouldn't have been fair to Dean; we need to be focused on him right now."

"I have to admit, watching you with your dad is like seeing a side of you I've never seen before. You looked like you wanted to rip his throat out." Jess commented, turning into the parking lot of a Ramada, "I've never seen you so pissed before."

"My dad brings that side out of me...out of most people, actually." Sam replied wryly, "He is really hard to be around sometimes, a lot of the time, actually. Dean gets him and they can peacefully coexist, but I lack that gene." He glanced at the hotel, his wallet hurting as he thought about how much this could wind up costing him if they stayed more than just a night or two. And what if he did decide to stay longer? It could be weeks before Dean was better, and Jess couldn't miss that much class. Anxiety welling up in his chest, he tried to come up with a plan, a strategy, something that had rules and boundaries that he could lay out and follow without having to think too much. Thinking hurt so incredibly bad right now.

"I think that could be said about a lot of families. My mother and I are only recently able to spend more than a few hours together without getting into an argument about something stupid." Jess replied with a sympathetic smile, pulling into a parking spot and reaching for the door handle but falling still when Sam reached out to grab her arm.

Sam cleared his throat quietly, giving her arm a tiny squeeze, "I think you should leave me here and head back home."

"Are you serious?" Jess asked, her voice raising with surprise, "I'm not going to leave you here alone to deal with this, Sam. It's not happening."

"No, hear me out." Sam argued, "I know you're worried about me, but I can handle it. You need to be back at school on Monday for your exam and I don't know how long it'll take before I'm ready to come back. I like having you with me, but school-"

"Did you hit your head?" Jess's forehead wrinkled as she frowned deeply, "If you even think that I'm going to just leave you here alone, without the car or a bag packed or anything, you must have a head injury."

"I'll get my Dad to bring me back to school." Seeing her skeptical look, Sam shrugged slightly, "I'll rent a car or something. I'll figure it out. If you failed this semester because of me, I'd never forgive myself."

Jessica rolled her eyes, pulling her arm away from Sam gently and opening the car door, "If I have to, I'll drive back Sunday night or early Monday morning. You don't need to be alone right now, especially around your dad. I'm going to go get us a room, we'll get some shut eye, and we'll talk about this more later."

She shut the door behind her, leaving Sam alone with his thoughts. He leaned his head against the back of the seat with a groan, knowing that there was no way he'd be able to do the research he needed with Jess hovering over him. He'd either have to tell her the truth, which could put his relationship in jeopardy, or be incredibly sneaky, which would also put his relationship in jeopardy. He reached behind the driver's seat, unzipping his backpack that he had left there the previous day to see if his laptop was still in there. Seeing that it was, he started to formulate a plan.

He and Jess got settled into their room in record time, finding it was quite easy when both had no luggage to bring upstairs or unpack. Unfortunately, no clean clothes meant both were reluctant to shower, seeing as how they'd just have to put back on their dirty clothes afterwards. Deciding to worry about that after a nap, Jess convinced Sam to come lie beside her in bed; she fell asleep quickly and easily and Sam had to force himself not to do the same. When he was sure she was deeply asleep, he carefully got out of bed, scribbling a note on the notepad next to the bed telling her he ran to the store to pick up some necessities. He was able to sneak out of the room without a sound, thanks to years of practice while hunting and training with his family, and headed towards the nearest library.

Thanks to the amount of time he and Jess had been awake before getting the call about Dean, he was able to get nearly ten hours of worth of research done before she was calling his cell phone to find out where he was. He had set up a research station at the university library, spreading out notes on the creature that Dean and their father had encountered as well as notes on different avenues for treatment that may or may not work. On the far end of the table sat discarded coffee cups from his attempt to stay awake; he was past running on empty and wasn't sure how much longer he'd be able to stare at a computer screen since the words were blurring together so bad that he couldn't make out half of what he was reading.

He had some viable leads, though, and was already starting to pack up when his phone vibrated, Jess's name popping up on the display. He hastily jammed the rest of the papers into his backpack and hurried out the front door of the library to answer the call, slightly breathless when he did accept the call.

"Hello?"

"Sam, where are you?" Jess asked, sounding a good mix of worried, upset and confused, "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." Sam replied automatically, having years of experience answering that question this way without thought, "I left you a note; I needed to pick up some things. I'll be back soon, though."

"Did you get any sleep?" Jess asked, sounding less upset and more concerned now, and Sam could picture her clearly in his mind, knowing that she probably didn't even look for a note and likely had just woke up to find herself alone and jumped to conclusions. "We could have gone to the store together, Sam. You didn't stop by to see Dean, did you? Not alone with your dad there?"

"No, Jess, I didn't." Sam answered truthfully, "And even if I did, I can handle my dad. I've seen him a lot angrier for a lot less, we've been getting on each other's nerves and in each other's faces for as long as I can remember and we've both survived so far. I'll be back in twenty minutes, okay?"

Sam disconnected the call before she could pry further, and pulled into a Target parking lot to hurry and grab a few items to make it look like he had really been shopping. As he looked cluelessly at clothes for Jess, he dialed the first person on his list to contact about Dean.

"Hello?"

"Uh, hi Bobby. It's Sam. Sam Winchester."

"I know who you are, you idjit." Bobby's voice rang through the line, sounding surprised but pleasant, "I didn't expect to hear from you though, son. How is college treating you?"

"Um, it's really great, actually." Sam replied, feeling unexpectedly emotional at the warmth in Bobby's voice. He had always had a good relationship with the older hunter and it was nice to know that didn't have to change because he went away to school. "Listen, I'm in Carson City with Dad and Dean-"

"What happened?" Bobby interrupted, his voice hardening slightly as if he knew, and he probably did, that if Sam were with the other two Winchesters something terrible must have happened to cause it, "Are you alright? Your Dad and Dean?"

"It's Dean." Sam admitted, "They thought they were hunting a werewolf, but it was actually a s Gueridia-"

"How the hell do you confuse a Gueridia with a werewolf?" Bobby asked incredulously, which only validated Sam's righteous anger at his father for their lack of preparation. He was glad he wasn't the only one asking this question.

"No idea. Lack of preparation?" Sam replied, then continued, "It attacked Dean." he paused as Bobby hissed with surprise and concern, and then brought up the reason he was calling, "It isn't good, Bobby. He's in ICU and they're not sure he's going to make it. I need some help."

"Name it, kiddo." Bobby replied, his heart breaking for the Winchesters. He knew John wouldn't survive losing another member of his family and he knew Sam would deal with the loss of his older brother even worse. He was already starting to gather books on the Gueridia as he waited for Sam to continue, having an idea already of the direction this conversation was heading. He tossed the books into a bag and then tossed his black book of contacts on top of it.

Sam hesitated for just a moment, tossing a few random articles of clothing for Jess into the basket and moving on to hairbrushes and shampoo, "I've done some research on the Gueridia, but I can't find anything on curing or treating an attack. And some of the damage isn't just from the monster, but from the physical altercation. What I really need is someone who can heal-a shaman, voodoo?, trateur? Do you know anyone that is the real deal? Or maybe a spell or a, I don't know, freelance non-evil witch?" his voice broke slightly and he said quietly, "Bobby, I just can't lose him. We've got to do something."

"I'm on my way. I'll call some of my contacts on the way in and see what I can find. You sit tight and try not to panic. I'm sure your dad treated the wounds with holy water? If not, I'd start there and then apply a tincture of sage, basil and Henley's Best-your father knows how to whip up a batch of Henley's. Spread it over his worst wounds and then put the bandages back on, it will draw out a lot of the toxin from the Gueridia. It won't completely cure him, but it will help with the stuff the doctors can't fix."

"Thanks, Bobby." Sam said gratefully. He knew he'd be able to count on Bobby for help, the fatherly figure had never let them down before and was known for always coming through in a pinch, "And listen, if one of your contacts has any lead-big, small, whatever-let me know. I'm willing to do anything, pay any price, whatever it takes to save him." His phone beeped, saying another call was coming through, and his breath caught in his throat when he realized it was his father, "I've got to go Bobby, but I'll keep in touch."

He ended the call with Bobby and took a steadying breath before connecting to his father, trying to push down some of the paralyzing fear that this was going to be _the_ call. "Hello?"

"Sam, you need to get back here."

"Is he-?"

"Just get back here." John said firmly, giving nothing away before hanging up. Abandoning the partially filled basket on the next aisle, Sam hurried to the exit, everything else forgotten as he raced back to his brother's bedside.

He arrived at the hospital in record time, hoping to God that there were none of those red-light or speeding cameras stationed in the city, because he had broken many traffic laws to get there as quickly as possible. He mashed the button for the elevator, and when thirty seconds passed without the doors opening, he changed his mind and took the stairs, running as fast as his long legs would carry him. Sam made it to Dean's hospital room breathless and sweaty, earning plenty of stares in the hallway from staff and visitors alike, but none of that mattered when he entered the room and saw his brother looking at him. Dean was awake.

Sam crossed the room in just a few large steps, ignoring his father completely, only having eyes for his brother, who looked completely stoned and half-asleep, but whose eyes were open and looking in his direction. He put his hand over Dean's, giving his big brother a smile and hoping that no one noticed the tears that he was refusing to let fall. Forcing the emotion back, he said shakily, "Hey, Dean, how are you feeling?"

"Like...hit...truck." Dean rasped out after pushing his oxygen mask to the side, his eyes falling closed for a moment from exhaustion from the minimal work required to speak, "Why...here?"

"Are you kidding me? Why _wouldn't_ I be here?" Sam asked, watching his brother anxiously but wanting to hide the fact that he was scared to death that his brother could be so weak when he had always been the epitome of strength. "In case you missed it, you're in the hospital. If you're in the hospital, then I'm right here beside you. It's a rule, you know, in the Little Brother Handbook."

"Should...school…" Dean insisted, looking irritated with himself that he couldn't say more. He started to cough, and Sam gently slid the mask back on his brother's face.

"Breathe, Dean." Sam soothed, swatting his brother's hand gently as he tried to take the mask off again, "Leave it alone and breathe. You sound like a 90 year old asthmatic." Once he was sure Dean wasn't going to pull the mask off, he continued, "I'm not at school because it's the weekend, you idiot. You think I'm just going to sit around my apartment and watch TV knowing you're here in the hospital? You must have hit your head harder than they thought."

Dean moved the mask slightly, wincing as his muscles protested the action, "Study...not here...work...fine."

Sam rolled his eyes, following along with Dean's broken words easily because he knew Dean well enough to anticipate what he would be saying anyway and having always had a knack for even the least vocal communication when it was with his big brother, "I have nothing to study for, and you're not that far away from school. Seriously, dude, I left when Dad called and was here within a few hours. I literally spent less time driving here than I did observing Jess's study group last night. I'm off work this weekend and you're absolutely not fine. You're pretty far from it, actually, but at least it looks like you're on the road to recovery."

"You….your….call"

"It is not!" Sam argued, laughter in his expression, "Are you kidding me? This would have happened if you had been given the death speech or not, your research was wrong, you jerk. Unless you're saying you are pmsing and you spent the whole hunt dwelling on the goodbye speech, in which case, I'll buy you a midol and a cosmo and be back on my way to school."

"Bitch." Dean snorted, the one word summing up an equal amount of teasing to the one Sam had dished out. His eyes drooped closed and he tried to resist, but couldn't hold off the pull of sleep any longer.

Sam patted Dean's hand, gently telling his brother, "Get some sleep, Dean. I'll be here when you wake up. You're going to be okay."

Dean went limp with sleep just a few moments later, leaving Sam no choice but to acknowledge their father, who was still standing in the corner, watching them. He looked over at the exhausted older man, and said quietly, "I didn't tell Jess about us. She doesn't need to know the truth."

"You're just going to keep her in the dark forever?" John asked, "You plan on never talking about your childhood? Or are you just going to lie?"

Sam shrugged, not meeting his father's gaze because he didn't want to see the disapproval in his expression, "I don't know, Dad, but I can't tell her. She'll think I'm crazy and leave."

"And it doesn't really matter, because you have plans for a white-picket-fence fairy tale life." John added pointedly, "It's easier to cover when and if Dean calls or stops around and just pretend like you're not who you actually are."

"I'm not a hunter."

"No, you're not. You've made that perfectly clear. But you were raised as one. Any other version of your childhood that you spin will be a lie. You may not want to live this life anymore, but the past doesn't go away. Trust me, I know."

Sam looked away, feeling his temper starting to inflate and not wanting to argue again. He had informed his dad that he had kept their secret as a peace offering for the fight earlier and it would make it useless if they got into it again. Sensing Sam's internal struggle, John added, "You should head back to Palo Alto, Sam."

"What? Dean needs me here." Sam argued, a flurry of panic building in his chest. Dean was hurt, in the hospital after serious injuries, and Dad wanted him to leave? He couldn't leave now, not until Dean was better. He couldn't deny that he was also feeling more than a little hurt that Dad was pretty much kicking him to the door as soon as the crisis had started to clear. It had hurt when he had been told to stay gone and this didn't feel too much different from that conversation even if the words weren't screamed in anger.

John shook his head, "No, Sam, he doesn't. The longer you're here, the worse it's going to be when you leave." He put his hand on Sam's shoulder, squeezing lightly to try and convey the sentiment that he wasn't going to verbalize but that he hoped Sam understood, "It nearly killed him when you left for school, and I had to pick up the pieces. I'm not going to do that again. He may not even remember you being here if you go now, it will hurt him less."

Sam remained silent, wanting to argue but also knowing that his father was right about it being even harder to leave if he stayed longer. He didn't want to hurt Dean, that was the last thing he wanted, but he also didn't feel right leaving until he knew Dean would make a full recovery, until he could see it with his own two eyes that Dean was alright.

"Sam, you have to make a choice, son. You can either be in or out of this family. You can't have it both ways. You can't be a hunter and a civilian. You certainly can't be a hunter and a lawyer, of all things. If you really want to have a normal life, you need to let us go." John shook his head sadly, adding, "We don't want you to go, we're not sending you away. It's your choice completely, but whatever you choose needs to be it."

Sam sniffed, looking at his brother longingly. Dean had practically raised him, he had been the most constant presence in his life. How could he walk away from that? From the one person he trusted and cared about more than anyone? The one person who knew everything about him and loved him anyway? They had been soldiers in the same war, had faced nearly every impossibility life could throw at them together and survived to tell the tale. Cutting Dean out of his life would be like cutting off his right arm. How could he live with that? But how could he give up his future? Jess, his friends, his education, all of the plans he had made for himself? Why couldn't he just have both?

"I…" Sam trailed off, looking at his father and then his brother, feeling like he was drowning and no one was there to help. His internal debate was broken by his cell phone ringing and he looked down at the display, recognizing Jess's number. His past or his future, he couldn't have both. He had to make a choice. He had spent years trying to get away from hunting and this life, he was happy now; making his own choices and living his own life. To leave it all and go back to following orders and living in chaos was equally as difficult to imagine.

Blinking back tears, Sam said quietly, "I guess I should go, then."

John's own eyes were misty as Sam spoke, his decision clear and definitive. He pulled his son in for a tight hug, patting his back firmly twice before releasing the young man, "You stay safe, now, Sammy. Take care of yourself."

"You too. Take care of Dean. Make sure he knows...no, actually..." Sam closed his eyes, taking a deep breath to steady himself. He knew he had to leave, because if he had time to think over this any longer he may change his mind, "Just...Just take care of Dean. Thank you for letting me see him."

"Goodbye, Sam."

"Bye, Dad." Sam said quietly, taking one last look at his sleeping brother before exiting the room.

He walked down the stairwell and to the car with his mind in a fog, unable to process what had just happened and feeling completely detached and numb. He arrived at the hotel without even realizing he had been driving, his body on auto-pilot as he tried to come to terms with the decision he had made.

The minute he saw Jess, he broke down, sinking to his knees and covering his face with his hands as he began to sob. What had he done? How could he have chosen anyone over his family? Over Dean? How could he have chosen to walk away from 18 years of his life in favor of the freedom he had only been living for two years? Had he completely lost his mind?

"Sam? What happened? Is it Dean?"

Sam shook his head miserably, though he couldn't form any words. How do you tell someone that you chose them over your flesh and blood? That you just blew off your chance to get back into a family that had been so incredibly hard to lose the first time around? This was what he wanted, wasn't it? Freedom and independence? The chance to pave his own way and make his own choices, to be normal and live a normal life? To have a wife and a family and a job that he could talk about with friends? If he had made the right choice, why did it feel so wrong?

He struggled to pull himself together and rose to his feet, crossing the room and taking Jess in his arms, burying his head in her strawberry-scented hair in an attempt to ground himself. He had been working toward this goal for years, he had already lived through being disowned once and he had survived. He'd survive again. There was really no other option.

"Sam, you're scaring me. What happened?"

"Jess, it's time to go home. I'm done here."

The words were raw and painful and they felt and sounded completely wrong, but it was too late for regrets now. He had to focus on the future and put the past behind him, no matter how hard it was. Sure, it was reckless and stupid to choose the girl he had only been dating for a year over the brother who had raised him, but one day she would be the girl he'd been married to for twenty years and perhaps then it wouldn't hurt so bad. And if he was wrong? Well, he had plenty of time to believe the lie before that time came.

_-Please let me know what you thought! This was so hard to write! Next will pick up somewhere in S1 or S2-_


	8. Chapter 7

_Set S2, Post ELAC. Dean grieves over his father and perhaps can start making peace with the situation _

Dean tossed the crowbar to the ground, furious at himself for losing control, for beating up on his already damaged car and undoing hours of work, for pushing away Sam. He was angry, so angry that he didn't know what to do anymore. He was angry with his father for dying, for dying r and leaving the orders to kill Sam if necessary. He was angry with Sam for insisting on making every waking moment an attempt to care and share, when he wanted to bury and forget. Remembering his father was painful and hard, he didn't want to think about the man he'd looked up to for his whole life at all, much less remember how he died. How much it hurt, the look of his father's still body, then his father's burning corpse. The raw pain on Sam's face, the anguish over a man whose last words were an order to kill him if he seemed to be on the path of darkness. How could Sam mourn someone who might have killed him? How could he ever tell Sam what their father had said? How could he live knowing his father was gone and not coming back? During the last year, he had been able to make peace with his father's absence, knowing that the oldest Winchester was alive by the sporadic texts and calls, but to know he was actually gone and would never send him coordinates again? Never call him again? Never show up in their hotel room again? How could he possibly live with that knowledge?

He ran his arm across his forehead to wipe away the sweat that threaten to drip into his eyes and pounded his fist against the trunk of the car, feeling so many intense emotions swirling around inside of him and not knowing how to handle them without hurting someone or losing his sanity. His anger deflated quickly and was replaced by a sense of emptiness, which had been his force and motivation for working on the car as much as he had been able to; if he dwelled on the empty feeling, it turned into sadness and made his whole body ache with grief and pain. If he ignored it and focused on work, it was easier to survive the day, and each day it got a little easier to push forward and ignore the elephant in the room.

He inspected the damage he had done to the car with a grimace, knowing his fit of anger had set him back and he'd have to work even longer now to get his baby back in top shape. It was getting late, though, and he wasn't going to start on it tonight. Instead, he had to make nice with Sam and Bobby and pretend like he wasn't losing his fucking mind. He banged his fist against the trunk once more, trying to banish all negativity before facing his family; blood and not. He could already envision Sam's serious and pitying looks, the suggestions to talk it out, Bobby's looks of concern that he thought he was hiding. Just the idea was overwhelming and exhausting, but he knew he had to make an appearance or they'd just seek him out, which would be even worse because then he wouldn't be able to escape when it was just too much.

Wiping the black grease from his hands onto his pants, Dean trudged slowly towards the house, hoping that Sam had decided to stay away after his little temper tantrum earlier. It was easier to act normal around Bobby, who was concerned but smart enough to keep his distance. It was much harder around Sam, who seemed to be staring into his soul and reaching out every 5 minutes. He knew that Sam needed to talk about things to wrap his mind around them, to process the information and recover. Sam had always been like that, so this was nothing new. But this was the first time that they had gone through a huge loss, a paradigm shift of sorts, together. It was infinitely harder to be strong for Sam when he could barely keep himself together.

Dean knew his brother needed him to be strong; Sam had always been the more emotional and expressive of the siblings and had openly relied on Dean for comfort, support and strength since they were young children. Usually, Dean had little trouble bearing that responsibility and shouldering some of Sam's burden. Now, though, his own grief was weighing him down and threatening to drown him and adding Sam's on top of it was making him slip away faster. He needed a break from everything; from his own thoughts and overwhelming feelings, from his brother, from Bobby, even from fixing the car. He needed to find some peace somewhere, but there was nowhere to go, nowhere to escape to. He had responsibilities here and even if he didn't feel like he was strong enough to carry out his duties, he had to. There was no other choice than to be strong and hope it didn't kill him in the process.

He made his way to the first-floor bathroom, washing his hands and listening to see if Sam was downstairs for dinner. He didn't hear any talking, so he took that as a good sign that he was safe. He knew Sam had to have witnessed his outburst on the car, so perhaps his younger brother would keep his mouth shut this time now that it was clear how Dean felt on the issue. He chuckled slightly and shook his head, knowing that would never happen; it wasn't in Sam's nature to let anything go. That was the main reason Sam and Dad had fought so much; neither of them were able to let things drop without a fight, and both had to have the last word.

He dried his hands and slowly walked to the kitchen, smelling the steaks that Bobby had prepared but finding himself not very hungry. He hadn't really had much of an appetite since the accident, which he supposed was usual for someone going through the stress he was going through. Dean stopped just outside of the kitchen when he heard voices. He recognized them as Sam and Bobby, who else would they be?, and paused to listen for just a moment. While some people would respect the others' privacy, Dean knew that sometimes listening in was the only way to know what was going on.

"There should be enough here to buy whatever he needs for the trunk. It's my fault that he beat the crap out if, it's the least I can do."

"He's a grown man, boy, he knew what he was doing. It's not your responsibility to clean up this mess."

"No, it was my fault. All of this is my fault, Bobby. J-just don't tell him it came from me, alright? I don't know if he would accept it if he knew."

"Where are you getting these funds from, anyway?" Bobby questioned, "You boys win the lottery or something?"

Sam was quiet, and when Bobby spoke again he sounded tired and old, "What did you do, Sam?"

"Nothing. It's just Stanford stuff." Sam dismissed, "I had some money saved up with Jessica before the fire; I was going to ask her to marry me, I was going to buy her a house. After she passed away…" Sam sighed, and Dean could imagine his little brother running his fingers through his shaggy hair, "after the fire, I gave a large bit of the money to her parents, for her funeral. It was the least I could do, since it was my fault that she died. There was some left, I have been having flowers delivered to her grave every month. Dean's more important, though. He lost his father, the Impala was practically our home and I didn't want him to lose it too. It was my fault, I need to fix the mess I created."

"Now, boy, this wasn't your fault-"

"Yes, it was! Bobby, I was _driving_ the car when we crashed. Dad told me to shoot him while he was possessed and I refused to. I couldn't do it, I didn't want to kill my father and Dad was pissed at me until the moment he died. He thought I was weak, I was weak. I made wrong decisions over and over again, and people have died because of it. Dad's dead because of me. If I had shot him when he wanted me to, we'd have the demon gone too."

"But he'd still be gone." Bobby said quietly, knowing that shouting would get them nowhere and not really seeing Sam's logic, "Whether it was the accident or the possession, he'd still be gone."

"It's not the same." Sam insisted, his voice quiet but heavy with sorrow, "The accident didn't kill him, it just set into motion the things that caused him to die. I doubt it's a coincidence that Dean made a miraculous recovery shortly before Dad died. It's not a coincidence that the colt is gone, that he had items used for summoning a demon. He did something to bring Dean back, and now he's dead. If I had shot him, it would still be my fault but at least it would be clear where to lay the blame. We don't know what Dad did, but Dean isn't stupid; he can see that it's not a coincidence either. So now he feels guilty on top of sad, and he has no reason to, because this is _my_ fault. So whatever I can do to make it better, I've got to do."

"But it's not your fault, you aren't responsible for a demon plowing into your car and you aren't responsible for anything your dad may have done to help Dean. You don't have to fix this because it's not on you."

Sam's response was too quiet for Dean to hear, and apparently Bobby as well because Bobby said a few seconds later, "What was that?"

"It's just…" Sam sighed again, and when he continued speaking Dean could hear the unshed tears in his voice, "Even if it wasn't my fault, Dean blames me. He won't talk to me, he avoids me whenever possible, he barely even looks at me. He thinks it's my fault that he lost his dad."

"That you _both_ lost your father." Bobby corrected, "He's not the only one here who's going through a loss."

"I don't deserve to feel anything like Dean does. I left and went to college, Dean is the one who stayed. He's Dad's son, he's the one who gets to hurt and grieve. I'm just-I-picked fights and didn't listen and I don't deserve to feel like crap now. Dean was right, it's too little, too late. He'd be better off he had left me at Stanford, everything I touch turns to crap." There was another sigh, and Sam said in a more subdued voice, "I'm really not that hungry, Bobby, I think I'm going to go to bed early."

"Sam, wait-"

"No, Dean will be in soon. He won't want to see me. Just order the parts you need; if you need more money, just let me know."

Dean realized he was about to get busted eavesdropping once Sam left the kitchen, so he decided to make his presence known before he had a chance to be caught. He walked in, his heart immediately twisting when he saw Sam's red and teary eyes. He hated to see his brother hurting, especially since he felt like a lot of his brother's pain was his fault for being a distant prick since they'd been at Bobby's. Even knowing this, it was too hard to look at Sam in pain and feel his own pain at the same time, so he opted for the easier route, "Mind if I take my food upstairs? I'm wiped from working on the car all day."

Sure, it was a pathetic attempt to justify escaping a tense and awkward situation, but he didn't really care at the moment. He just knew he needed to get away before he completely fell apart. Bobby looked at him in concern and Sam looked away, refusing to meet Dean's eyes, clearly taking this as as slight against him when it wasn't that at all. Unfortunately for both of them, Dean wasn't in the mood to placate his brother and play the role of the older sibling at the moment, so there was little to be done other than to take his plate and retreat to the solace of the guest room. Usually he and Sam shared a room even though Bobby had enough space for each to have their own; their upbringing and lifestyle bred co-dependence and it was reassuring to know Sam was feet away instead of separated by a wall, but this time he had secluded himself in a room alone, despite knowing how much it would tear his brother apart. It wasn't that he wanted to hurt Sam, far from it. As much as the distance hurt Sam, it would hurt his little brother much worse if they were in close quarters and Dean completely shut off. At least this way there were no raised hopes or delusions, what Sam saw was what Sam got.

He picked at his food, not particularly hungry and feeling worse now that he had Sam's admissions to Bobby running through his mind. He knew Sam was hurting, but he didn't know Sam thought he was at fault for anything that had happened. It was as far from the truth as possible, and Dean wanted to go to his brother and tell him that repeatedly until Sam believed it, but he couldn't. He didn't have the strength, the energy, the peace of mind, anything necessary to reassure Sam when he was barely able to function himself. He felt bad about it, the guilt weighing on him like an elephant on his chest, but there just wasn't any more of himself to give.

Dean heard the door next to his shut and he knew his brother was now in his room as well. He wondered if Sam had eaten, since not much time had passed, and couldn't keep the worry away. They were falling apart, both of them. He really wanted to fix this; fix himself, fix Sam, fix _them_ but he was at a loss for how to do so. He could barely force himself to get out of bed and perform his necessary life activities without feeling like his chest would explode from the agony of what he had lost, to ask much more of him felt impossible.

He sat on the bed, hunched over and resting his elbows on his knees while he cradled his head. Being alone was like dying slowly and painful, agonizing torture. To be with others felt exactly the same, though with an added sense of guilt for bringing them down as well. Bobby and Sam could see through his fake smiles and his indifferent disposition and he desperately wanted to be somewhere where people wouldn't call him out on his forced and false calmness. What he needed was a drink, so with a heavy sigh he forced himself to sit, bones weary and tired. With any luck, Sam and Bobby would be asleep by the time he got back from the bar and he'd escape another night of stares and concern.

He stood and walked to the dresser to pick up his wallet and jacket. The sound of clinking metal caught his attention and he looked down to see his father's dog tags, which had fallen to the floor. He bent down to retrieve them, then held them tightly in his hands. It was just another painful reminder that they were now alone, that his father was gone and had left the world's largest burden on his shoulders.

Through the bedroom wall, Dean heard a sob,the sound cutting like a knife. How could he comfort Sam knowing that his father's last words were instructions to save or kill him? Who would put that sort of responsibility on their child? Their child that had been ordered to take care and protect his brother since he was four years old? How could he save Sam if he was drowning too? How could he protect Sam from himself, how would he know if Sam was turning dark-side, how would he be able to bring himself to do it if it came to that point? The answer, of course, was that he wouldn't, he couldn't, hurt Sam. It wasn't something he was capable of, it wasn't an option. But to ignore his father's dying wish?

The first sob was followed by a second, and Dean covered his ears like he was suddenly five years old again and wanted to tune out the world. He couldn't listen to this, he didn't want to know Sam was falling apart just feet away on the other side of the wooden barrier separating the two of them. It was easier to pretend like Sam was okay, like he wasn't failing his role as big brother by letting Sam shatter to pieces alone.

Dean sat heavily on the bed, dog tags dangling from his fingers and all thoughts of the bar forgotten, replaced by haunting memories of the last few weeks. His chest ached terribly; grief, sorrow, pain, panic all swirling around like a giant vortex, waiting to suck him in and never let go. He shifted uncomfortably, finding it hard to draw in a breath as deeply as he would like, which only made the unease and panic worse. He gasped for air, feeling like he was choking on the air around him, thick and unpleasant and full of remorse and regret. He felt flushed and hot, and as soon as he realized it, he broke out into a sweat which quickly covered his whole body. He was pretty sure he was going to vomit as emotions and pain tore through his body, twisting his insides like a pretzel. He stood, one hand made into a fist in front of his chest, deciding through a hazy and panicked mind that he needed to splash some water on his face. He only made it a few steps before the room started to tilt and spin wildly around him, his vision and hearing quickly becoming distorted. It was getting increasingly harder to breathe and he was getting downright scared.

The door opened but he paid no mind to the sound, clawing at his chest as he wheezed in another painful breath. He swallowed back a wave of nausea and moaned, the pain growing to a level of intensity that made Dean wish someone would just put him out of his misery. He was vaguely aware of his brother's presence in the room, feeling calmed slightly but still unable to steady himself and breathe. His vision to grey around the edges, and he squeezed his eyes shut, swaying precariously as he tried to orient himself and decide which way he needed to go to get back to the safety of his bed.

Strong arms wrapped around him and held him tightly, and Dean weakly protested, trying to pull away. He wasn't sure if he was going to throw up or pass out, or both, and his voice wasn't working to warn whoever it was, Sam maybe?, that they were flirting with danger being this close at the moment. The person was calmly and quietly talking to him, but he couldn't make out what was being said, and he was finally able to think with certainty that this was his little brother; who else the size of a small giant would be grabbing at him when he was like this? The tight embrace allowed some of the panic to recede, and after a few minutes he was able to piece together what his brother was saying.

"Just breathe, Dean. In and out, try to copy mine, okay?" Sam said firmly, though in a calm voice that urged Dean to comply, "You're okay, you're having a panic attack. Can you hear me?"

Dean stopped resisting, his head falling forward against Sam's chest and his legs giving way beneath him. He thought for sure they'd both go down, but Sam easily supported his weight and all but carried him the few feet distance to the bed. He clung to his brother's shirt, trying to follow Sam's instructions and breathe, but it was so incredibly exhausting and hard to do. He felt like he was floating, disconnected from his body, and it made him feel queasy, as if he'd been riding on a roller coaster upside down too long. His chest still felt tight and he wasn't quite convinced yet that he wasn't about to pass out. Was he having a heart attack? Was he about to die from this elephant sitting on his chest after he had made a miraculous recovery from the accident?

"You aren't having a heart attack." Sam tried to reassure him, leaving Dean to wonder if he was thinking out loud, "You need to breathe, Dean. Slow, controlled breaths or you're going to pass out. Please, Dean, for me, try to calm down. Just breathe in, hold it, and breathe out. You're going to be okay."

Dean wanted to comply, especially since he was now aware of the concern and panic lying just below the surface of Sam's calm and composed demeanor. To an outsider, it wouldn't be visible, but Dean knew his kid brother better than anyone and he could see the fear around the edges that the younger man was trying so hard to hide.

"I feel like I'm going to puke." Dean groaned a few moments later, the room still moving around him even though Sam was holding him steady, "I'm so lightheaded. Do I have a head injury?"

"No, Dean." Sam replied calmly, "Just a panic attack, I promise. It's getting better. Can you feel it? You're breathing better now. Just focus on breathing for a few minutes, okay?"

"It's so hot in here." Dean moaned, wiping a thick layer of sweat from his face and onto his shirt, "I'm suffocating."

"It's not hot. Your skin is cold and clammy, it's just because you're freaking out. Try to calm down, it's okay. You're okay." Sam repeated, and Dean had the feeling that his brother had repeated this more than he had been aware of, since Sam was using the 'I've told you this a billion times' tone. He inhaled deeply, held his breath for a few seconds, then exhaled, realizing that now he was able to do this without feeling like something was clawing at his chest and trying to escape.

"You're doing good, Dean." Sam praised, then gently untangled himself from his brother and pushed him towards the pillow on the bed, "Lay down and breathe. Just try to relax, get some sleep. It'll be better when you wake up."

"No, it won't." Dean mumbled, but he was already feeling disoriented and numb as he was pulled toward sleep and couldn't form anything more coherent or lengthy than that..

There were more soothing words that Dean was too far gone to comprehend, and then the warmth next to him vanished. He moaned, reaching back towards where his brother had been and murmuring, "No, stay."

"You sure?"

Dean felt tears prickle underneath his eyelids at the hesitation in Sam's voice, knowing he had been the one to put it there. He could feel his heart rate increasing and his breath caught in his throat, but he was instantly calmed when the bed dipped and he could feel his brother's warm, reassuring presence beside him, the younger man's voice reassuring, "I'll stay, I promise. I'll stay right here."

Dean fell into an exhausted sleep, the emotional outburst combined with recent events taking a toll on his body and mind. As he gave in to the welcoming darkness, he couldn't help but wonder how on earth his brother, the guy who he had shut out, yelled at, hit and pushed away and still turned up when Dean needed him the most, could possibly be someone that would need to be eliminated one day. In that moment he realized that he was worrying over nothing; he wasn't going to need to worry about putting Sam down because the chances of Sam going dark were slim to none, and as long as Dean was around, he'd make sure the kid never changed.


	9. Chapter 7-5

_Snapshots: 7.5. Takes place in early S2, same as Snapshots: 7. While 7 was from Dean's POV, 7.5 is from Sam's. I'm pretty sure the next one will come from S4, unless my mind formulates a great snapshot from another point along the way. Thanks for the responses I've gotten, I appreciate all of you and would love to continue hearing your thoughts, ideas, etc. _

Sam watched solemnly as Dean smashed the trunk of his beloved car with a crowbar, pent up rage and pain spilling out in grunts and screams as he repeatedly brought the iron down upon the black metal frame. He was horrified that Dean would do such a thing to his beloved car, but not surprised in the least that Dean had finally reached his breaking point.

He knew he had done nothing to help the situation since they'd arrived at Bobby's a few weeks earlier. Sam was well-aware that he had been pushy and insistent in trying to convince Dean to open up and talk to him. It had been for both of their sakes, really; Dean wasn't doing himself any favors by keeping it all bottled up, and Sam was so consumed with pain that he felt like his heart was going to explode in a million pieces if he didn't let it out. Not only had he lost his father, but he had nearly lost his brother and the whole situation made his guilt and sorrow over Jessica's death return to the surface from where he had buried it deeply inside. He wasn't planning on having a heart-to-heart with Bobby; and face it, it wasn't as if he had his Stanford friends to lean upon in his time of mourning. The only person who would possibly understand was Dean, and Dean hated him at the moment.

He didn't blame Dean in the least, of course. It was all Sam's fault anyway; everything starting with the fire that killed their mother in his nursery at six months old to their father's death was all on Sam. If he hadn't been alive, their mother would still be with them. He could imagine the life Dean would have had, his mother and father raising him in Lawrence in their nice house in their nice neighborhood. Dean could have played baseball and stayed in the same school district for his entire education, perhaps even have done to college. He would have settled down with a beautiful, funny woman and they might even have kids by now. His family would have been much better off if he had never existed in the first place. Too bad there wasn't a magic spell to bring back their father and eradicate Sam and the memory of Sam from the universe.

As if being responsible for their mother's death wasn't enough of a black mark on his soul, things had been rough since he started hunting with Dean again. Hell, over the last year Dean had been given little-to-no hope of survival by doctors twice and Sam couldn't undo the damage either one of those events had caused. If there was a way he could bring his father back and die in his place instead, he'd gladly do it, just so his brother wouldn't hurt so , that was impossible and they just had to figure out how to move forward.

Sam had worked in vain to try to be the good son now, to follow his father's wishes and try to be the person he had fought so hard against being for his entire life. It was the least he could do, after his part in the accident and their father's death. It made things easier, to imagine that he was carrying out his dad's work and doing what his dad would have wanted him to do. It made the shame and guilt he was carrying around for the way they constantly fought, up until the very end, shrink just a tiny bit. At this point, even a tiny bit less pain was a remarkable improvement, so he had been fully intent to set out on a mission to carry out exactly what his father had in mind for him. Of course, Dean wasn't buying the new-Sam, and had called him out on his new attitude, felling him it was 'too little, too late'. That was true, of course, but it had been excruciatingly painful to hear.

He had never been given the chance to know his mother, and while his father had been alive for 23 years of Sam's life, he had never really gotten a chance to know the man behind the hard-eyes and resolve of steel. Dean had known their dad when he was gentle, loving and fatherly. Sam's only memories were of a drill-sergeant attitude and clear concern and care, but nearly impossible to reach behind a wall of vengeance, grief and determination. Sam wished more than anything that he had realized he needed to spend more time amicably with their father, that he had known the last time they had spoken would actually be the last time. There were so many things he could have done differently if he had just known what was going to happen and how soon he'd lose his father.

He had never felt so alone; his parents were both dead, his girlfriend was dead, Dean was alive but light years away hidden behind anger, despair and a profound sense of loss. He slowly made his way up the stairs and through Bobby's door, glancing back at his brother just once more while wishing he could do something to ease Dean's pain and get his brother back.

Sam could smell food in the kitchen, but the thought of food made him feel queasy. He tried to be as quiet as possible to sneak by Bobby; he had business to handle before Dean came in to eat. If all went well, he'd be upstairs and far away before Dean made his appearance and his brother wouldn't have to suffer through his company yet again. He had been convinced that talking it out would help Dean, but now it was clear that Dean wanted nothing to do with him and there was nothing Sam could do to help the situation. He tiredly trudged to his room, pulling out an envelope and heading back downstairs to talk to the older hunter who had been part of their family for as long as he could remember. He could never express how thankful he was for the grisly old hunter; Bobby had gone out of his way to help their family countless times, and this was just one more favor that they owed him.

"Hey, Bobby." Sam greeted, plastering a smile onto his face despite the fact that he had nothing in the world to smile about.

Bobby looked up from the stove, greeting the younger man with a warm smile, "I was hoping you two would be in for dinner soon, it'll be ready in just a few minutes."

"Thanks. I hope you didn't go to too much trouble." Sam looked at the stove and couldn't help but appreciate the work and effort Bobby had put into the meal. It wasn't often that they had home-cooked meals when they lived on the road, but Bobby always strived to put a wholesome meal on the table for them. Sam wondered if the older hunter had any idea of how much they appreciated the gesture and normalcy of it all.

"It's no trouble at all." Bobby replied, and Sam could tell that the older hunter was being 100% honest. Bobby was a great guy, and while Sam was thrilled to have him in their corner, sometimes he felt undeserving. The number of scrapes and situations Bobby had rescued them from since they were young children all the way through now, when they were grown-ass men...Sam wasn't sure if they would have survived certain aspects of their childhood without their surrogate father figure.

Sitting down at the table, Sam laid down the envelope and said, "Dean and I got into an argument earlier. About Dad...me and my inability to give Dean the space he needs..."

"Oh, Sam." Bobby sighed, plating their food before moving to sit across from the youngest Winchester, "I know you two have been through a lot together, but sometimes you just need to give each other the space you need to grieve."

"I know." Sam said quietly, fiddling with the envelope before looking up at Bobby's tired face, "Anyway, he took a crowbar to the trunk of the Impala. It's pretty messed up, it'll have to be replaced." Sam pushed his hair back from his face with one hand and slid the envelope further, "There should be enough here to buy whatever he needs for his trunk. It's my fault that he beat the crap out of it, it's the least I can do."

"He's a grown man, boy, he knew what he was doing. It's not your responsibility to clean up his mess." Bobby replied, tapping the envelope with his finger. He looked troubled, and Sam looked away, not wanting to even try to decipher what the older man was implying.

To Sam, the situation was pretty cut and dry. He kept pushing Dean, knowing Dean wasn't going to suddenly have a heart-to-heart. Because he wouldn't let the subject drop, Dean took a weapon to his most prized possession. There was no way that this wasn't his fault. Dean couldn't be responsible for those actions when it was Sam who drove him to the breaking point.

"No, it was my fault. All of this is my fault, Bobby. J-Just don't tell him it came from me, alright? I don't know if he would accept it if he knew." Sam insisted. He had to do this, he had to fix what he could, since he couldn't fix the one person he wanted to fix most of all. He had been driving when the accident happened. They were on the road because Dad had beat the crap out of Dean while possessed and Sam hadn't put a bullet into him when he was ordered to do so. Dean almost died because of him. If Dean hadn't been near death, Dad wouldn't have summoned the demon and he'd probably still be alive too. Any way this cake was sliced, it was his fault. He had to own up to that responsibility and take care of business. There wasn't time for Bobby to coddle him and tell him it wasn't his fault, he had to man up and deal with this the way Dad would have wanted him to...if he could only figure out how Dad would have wanted him to deal with this. Coping with his death was not one of the life lessons that John Winchester had been inclined to share with his sons.

"Where are you getting these funds from anyway? You boys win the lottery or something?"

Sam sighed, staring wistfully at the crinkled envelope sitting in front of Bobby. His life was in that envelope. When he had first met Jess, he had started saving up to take her somewhere nice; being a full-time student at an ivy league college left little time for extravagance and his original goal was to save up for a weekend trip. By the time they had a weekend available, he had already known she'd be the woman he'd marry. The savings had transformed into a "ring fund" followed by a "house down payment" fund. He had saved every dime he could spare to add to his savings. His scholarship had provided funds for his tuitions, books, housing and living expenses, so each semester he would put anything not absolutely necessary for life or school into savings, preparing for the day when he could finally pop the question. When the fire occurred, he hadn't quite had enough for a down payment on a house, not even a down payment on a shack with a 3% down loan, but he had acquired enough to show he was well on his way to a picket-fence lifestyle that he had so desperately craved. He had forced the Moore family to take enough to cover her funeral expenses and had set up an account with a local flower shop to keep her gravesite flowers fresh and alive. It had drastically cut down on his funds, but then again they had always been meant for Jess. It worked out perfectly that he still had some left, though, because repairing the Impala hadn't been cheap. Bobby didn't have everything needed so Sam had ordered parts and had them shipped over. Dean hadn't questioned the origin of the supplies and Sam wasn't about to tell him, not when Dean had made a point to reject any help Sam had offered since the accident.

Sam figured he had been lost in his thoughts again, because he was pulled from them by Bobby asking in a completely resigned voice, "What did you do, Sam?"

Sam wanted to laugh, since the question made it sound like Bobby thought he may have robbed a bank or killed a hooker to make off with her night's take. He shook his head, wanting to reassure the older hunter that nothing terrible had taken place, "Nothing, it's just Stanford stuff. I had some money saved up with Jessica before the fire; I was going to ask her to marry me, I was going to buy her a house. After she passed away…" Sam sighed, thinking of his girlfriend and the life they were now missing out on. He had truly loved her and was looking forward to spending his life with her. Even though it had been over a year since her death, he still missed her terribly every single day. He wished he had been able to propose, to put a down payment on a house, to marry her and have children and raise them to be competent little scholars. Instead, he was sitting in a worn kitchen in Sioux Falls with no father, no girlfriend, a distant brother and an old family friend who was comforting and reminded him of home, but who wasn't his Dad, Jess or Dean. He ran his fingers through his hair, exhausted, and continued, "After the fire, I gave a large bit of the money to her parents, for her funeral. It was the least I could do, since it was my fault that she died. There was some left, so I have been having flowers delivered to her grave every month. Dean's more important, though. He lost his father, the Impala was practically our home and I didn't want him to lose it too. It was my fault, I need to fix the mess I created."

"Now, boy, this wasn't your fault-"

Sam cut him off, not wanting to hear Bobby try and justify his responsibility in the things that had transpired. "Yes, it was! Bobby, I was _driving_ the car when we crashed. Dad told me to shoot him while he was possessed and I refused to. I couldn't do it, I didn't want to kill my father and Dad was pissed at me until the moment he died. He thought I was weak, I was weak. I made wrong decisions over and over again, and people have died because of it. Dad's dead because of me. If I had shot him when he wanted me to, we'd have the demon gone too."

Sam fought tears that were threatening to surface, the anxiety in his chest and burning in his eyes warning him that if he didn't reign it in, he was surely to be embarrassed later by falling apart in front of Bobby. There weren't enough words to explain how this was ultimately his fault. He could trace back his guilt to the day he was born. If he had died in the fire, his family would have been happy. If he hadn't left for college, would things be different? If he didn't get back on the road with Dean? If he hadn't constantly butted heads with Dad and followed orders for once? If he had driven a little faster or a little slower, could they have avoided the crash? If he had shot his father, or found a way to exorcise the demon or done _anything_ differently, would they be in this situation right now? Would his dad be with them right now?

"But he'd still be gone. Whether it was the accident or the possession, he'd still be gone."

The words cut like a knife, but Sam still didn't feel like Bobby really understood where he was coming from. Hell, sometimes be barely understood it himself, "It's not the same. The accident didn't kill him, it just set into motion the things that caused him to die. I doubt it's a coincidence that Dean made a miraculous recovery shortly before Dad died. It's not a coincidence that the colt is gone, that he had items used for summoning a demon. He did something to bring Dean back, and now he's dead. If I had shot him, it would still be my fault but at least it would be clear where to lay the blame. We don't know what Dad did, but Dean isn't stupid; he can see that it's not a coincidence either. So now he feels guilty on top of sad, and he has no reason to, because this is _my_ fault. So whatever I can do to make it better, I've got to do."

What he wanted to say was 'I wish I could trade places with Dad, because Dean would be better of far away from my and my toxicity', but he knew Bobby wouldn't respond well to that.

"But it's not your fault, you aren't responsible for a demon plowing into your car and you aren't responsible for anything your dad may have done to help Dean. You don't have to fix this because it's not on you."

"It is on me. I destroy everyone that loves me." Sam mumbled quietly, staring at the table through damp, red eyes. His mother, Jessica, even his father...he could find evidence to justify his opinion that he had played a large part in their deaths. Dean was right to hate him, Bobby should probably stay away. Just his mere existence was a bad luck omen.

"What was that?"

"It's just…" Sam sighed, trying to group his thoughts and keep his tears at back, Even if it wasn't my fault, Dean blames me. He won't talk to me, he avoids me whenever possible, he barely even looks at me. He thinks it's my fault that he lost his dad."

"That you _both_ lost your father." Bobby corrected, "He's not the only one here who's going through a loss."

Sam shook his head forcefully; Dean's loss was so much greater than his own. Dean and his father had been closer, they had a better relationship. He had always been at odds with their father, up until the very end. He wasn't a son, he was a giant pain in the ass. Dean had always been the good son, the one who was able to follow directions and look at the end game instead of getting caught up in stupid, unattainable hopes and dreams.

"I don't deserve to feel anything like Dean does. I left and went to college, Dean is the one who stayed. He's Dad's son, he's the one who gets to hurt and grieve. I'm just-I-picked fights and didn't listen and I don't deserve to feel like crap now. Dean was right, it's too little, too late. He'd be better off he had left me at Stanford, everything I touch turns to crap." Sam pushed his chair back, suddenly feeling much more exhausted than he had before and unwilling to keep this conversation going before he started to look completely unraveled, "I'm really not that hungry, Bobby, I think I'm going to go to bed early."

"Sam, wait-"

"No, Dean will be in soon. He won't want to see me. Just order the parts you need; if you need more money, just let me know."

Sam was about to walk out of the room when Dean entered, looking tense and uncomfortable. The expression on his brother's face was enough to drive another spike of pain through Sam's chest, and as soon as Dean excused himself with dinner, Sam started towards the door as well.

"Aren't you going to eat?"

"I'm not really hungry. Sorry, Bobby."

Bobby stood, taking a few steps towards Sam and putting his hands on the younger boy's shoulders, "You boys will get through this. If there's anything I know for certain, it's that you two are unlike any other brothers I've ever met. There's nothing that the two of you can't overcome. Just hang in there until your brother comes around. You don't have to shoulder the blame for this; I know your brother don't blame you."

"Thanks, Bobby." Sam said quietly, not entirely sure that the older man was correct, but not wanting to argue. All he wanted to do was get to his room before the threatening tears reached the surface. Everyone already thought he was the weakest Winchester, he didn't need to proven it by crying like a baby in front of Bobby.

He paused outside of Dean's door, wanting nothing more than to open it and demand _his_ brother return; the brother who always made everything better, the brother who always knew exactly what to do or say to make any situation better. Those days were gone, though, Dean couldn't even stand to breathe the same air as him. He continued walking to the room he'd been staying in and sat on the edge of the bed, his body trembling with emotions he was too afraid to put his finger on. He felt like he was smothering, like the guilt and the sadness and the _loss_ was drowning him and he had no life preserver in sight. The tears that had been threatening erupted and he covered his face with his hands, his entire body shaking as one sob escaped, followed by another, and another until he had no choice but to bury his face into his pillow and give in to the emotions overwhelming his system.

The burst of emotion didn't last long, but it was intense and cathartic. He could imagine that if Dean would allow himself to grieve in the same way, perhaps they'd be able to move forward and begin to heal. He rolled over, looking up at the ceiling as wiped his face, wanting to remove the evidence of his outburst just in case someone came along. It was okay to feel this way and to cry, but it wasn't something he was comfortable doing in front of Dean or Bobby, it was something private that didn't need an audience. The days of crying on the shoulders of those older than him were long gone and he had no plans to revisit them at any point.

He heard a thud coming from Dean's room and he turned his head towards the wall, listening to make sure nothing was wrong. Aside from the time he was at Stanford, he and Dean rarely weren't in the same bedroom. It had been lonely and quiet having a separate living space from his brother and he didn't particularly care for it. He could imagine Dean moving around the room they typically shared, and if he had to guess, he'd say his brother had bumped into the dresser. Hearing another thud, though, had him concerned, especially since he was accustomed to hearing a colorful string of words after bumping into something that hadn't quite come to be.

Sam walked to Dean's room, hesitating as he reached up to knock. He didn't want to invade Dean's space, but there was a small part of him that worried about his brother somehow winding up in the same state he had been in the hospital before he was healed of his injuries. There was no answer to his knock, so he pushed the door open, fully expecting Dean to shout at him for the intrusion. What he didn't expect to see was Dean hyperventilating in the throes of a panic attack. He wasn't surprised; eventually the pain and stress of their father's death would have to make its way out in some way, shape or form. He had expected it to be fits of alcohol-infused rage, but considering they hadn't gone through something this large-scale since Dean was 4 years old, there was no way of knowing how it would finally manifest itself.

"Dean?"

Dean struggled to catch his breath and swayed, causing Sam to leap over one bed to get to his brother's side. He grabbed Dean by the arms, instructing, "Dean, breathe. You're okay, just calm down and try to breathe."

His words fell on deaf ears as Dean tried to pull away. Sam refused to let go, though, thinking it was very possible that if he let go right now, Dean wouldn't be able to support his own weight. Instead, he pulled Dean in for a tight embrace, holding tighter the more Dean tried to pull back.

"In and out, Dean. Just breathe. It's going to be okay, I promise. I've got you, man, it's okay. Just breathe in when I do, then breathe out. You're okay." He felt Dean relax just the slightest amount, and took it as a sign that his words were working, so he continued, "Just breathe, Dean. In and out. Try to copy me, okay? You're okay...you're having a panic attack, but you're okay. Can you hear me?"

Dean stopped fighting and immediately went limp, causing Sam to increase his grip in an effort not to have both of them fall. He half-led, half-dragged Dean to the nearby bed while continuing to soothe to the best of his ability. At least Dean wasn't fighting him anymore; now they could work on getting his older brother calm and settled.

Dean was murmuring into Sam's shirt, but Sam could only catch a few words, two being 'heart attack'. With a slight smile, he replied, "No, you aren't having a heart attack. It's just a panic attack, you just need to breathe. Can you breathe? In and out, come on Dean, if you don't breathe you're going to pass out."

For several minutes they sat completely still, Dean slowly calming while Sam continued to gently try and keep his brother grounded and breathing. After a few minutes, Dean groaned, "I think I'm going to puke. I'm so lightheaded. Do I have a head injury?"

Sam didn't let his brother go, trusting that Dean would, in fact, not puke on him. Even if he did, it would probably be forgiven because at least now Dean was starting to seem calm and coherent enough to understand what was going on.

"No, just a panic attack, I promise. It's getting better. Can you feel it? You're breathing better. Just focus on breathing for a few minutes, okay?" Sam instructed, wondering if this is what it felt like to be the big brother. It was so rare that Dean needed his help, and even more rare still that Dean would accept his help. It was a testament to how bad this was that his brother hadn't pulled away and closed himself off yet. Sam couldn't deny that being in this situation was making him nervous and worried; it was so unlike Dean to be out of control, but he also felt an emotion that felt suspiciously like pride welling in his chest; he was getting to help his brother when Dean had needed him and it felt damn good.

"It's so hot in here. I'm suffocating." Dean moaned, and Sam frowned deeply. If anything, Dean was cold and clammy to the touch, even though his brother was clearly sweating. He could only assume it was a result of the panic attack, and told Dean as much, not really knowing how much Dean was understanding and processing, but knowing that sitting here in an awkward silence would be counterproductive. He continued to murmur soothingly to his brother, encouraging him to breathe, trying to get him to lay down and sleep the rest of this off. He wasn't sure if sleep would help, but he knew from experience that freaking out was exhausting and figured it wouldn't hurt to have Dean escape the conscious world for awhile.

He was floored when Dean asked him to stay. Not quite sure if he could trust his ears or if his brother was lucid enough to know what he was saying, he asked, "You sure?"

Dean's response was instant, his breathing speeding up again and his body twisting slightly like he was unable to get comfortable and starting to panic again. Quickly, to prevent any escalation, Sam agreed, "I'll stay. I promise, I'll stay right here."

Sam couldn't deny that he was more than willing, he'd even go as far as to call it excited, to stay by his brother's side. It had felt like ages since Dean wanted him around and he was so tired of feeling alone and helpless. He made himself comfortable next to Dean, his eyes instantly growing heavy. Sleep had not been in his friend since the accident and being isolated had not helped in the least. Dean's breathing evened out nearly instantly as the older man fell into an exhausted slumber. Sam was only able to resist a few more minutes before drifting off as well. Things always felt better, _right_, when they were together and not apart. For the first time in weeks, Sam was starting to feel like maybe they'd make it through this, maybe they'd be alright even without Dad, without the Colt, without any leads. They were brothers, _Winchester _brothers, and there was nothing they couldn't handle as long as they worked together.


	10. Chapter 8

_Post 4.04 'Metamorphosis" This one is short, but it's more of a tag than a complete snapshot. Expect something more substantial next time!_

Now that they were done with the hunt and settled down in their motel room, Sam rolled over, facing away from Dean, and closed his eyes, reflecting of the events that had transpired not just now, but over the last few months. His head throbbed from injury and fatigue, and there was no denying that he wished Ruby was around to give him another hit of blood. He felt ashamed; he had just told Dean, not two hours ago, that he was done using his powers. At the time, he was convinced that he was, he was determined to stop, he was ready to do whatever it took to salvage the relationship with his brother that was teetering precariously on the edge of destruction. He wanted to stop, so badly he wanted to; but the desire, the need, the ache for his vice ran so deep that Sam was certain he wouldn't survive without it. How had they gotten to this point? How had he let things get so out of control?

For his entire life, Sam had strived to remain in control of his life, much to the dismay of his father, who also preferred to hold all the cards. In all actuality, his life hadn't really been his in years, not since he had left Stanford. First he was driven by the need for revenge, to catch Jessica's killer and get retribution. After the yellow-eyed demon was gone, he had to look for a way to save Dean. Now that Dean was back, he was being controlled not only by his need for revenge but also by his addiction.

He had never pictured himself as an addict. He wasn't as big of a drinker as his Dad had been, as Dean was. He wasn't into drugs, he hadn't even experimented with them in high school or college. He had always felt he had more self-control, more to live for, and that having vices would make it harder to remain focused on the end-goal. As it turned out, without Dean there was no end-goal and he had much less to live for than he originally thought. The demon blood had been a last ditch effort at doing something meaningful; a way to take down Lilith and get her back for taking his brother away from him. It was the only thing keeping him from life and death; giving him a purpose when all he wanted to do was give up and die. It wasn't an ideal vice, not something that was normal and had a 12-step program, but it was his only choice. Why couldn't Dean see that? It was using his powers or laying down to die. Is that what Dean wanted? For Sam to be so miserable and lonely that he wasted away to nothing? He had been alone and hopeless and this seemed like the best option. When he had died, Dean had went and made a demon deal, selling his soul. How was that any better than the way he was coping?

"Sam? You okay?" Dean asked, his voice gruff in a mixture of fatigue from the hunt and residual pain from getting slammed around by the rougarou.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut tightly, his heart clenching in a moment of anxiety-induced panic and sending a wave of dizziness through him. He didn't want to talk to Dean about this. He didn't want to talk to Dean at all. Dean knew too much, Dean knew him too well, Dean knew that there was evil inside of him. He hoped his voice sounded steady when he replied, "I'm fine. Just tired."

"Need me to check you over for a concussion or something?" Dean asked, and Sam knew it was his brother's way of trying to make amends. When all else failed, pulling out the big brother card made everything less tense and awkward. These were the roles they had played for the majority of their lives, these were the roles they were most comfortable in. When it was just them being brothers, there was little variation. Dean was the caretaker, Sam was the one being cared for. Very seldom did the rules change and even when their roles were reversed, both had enough practice to know what to do without making things weird. It was everything else that was completely screwed up.

Still, Sam found himself unable to relent and let Dean put on his big brother hat. The days of needing his big brother had long ago passed, at least that's what Sam liked to tell himself. Truth be told, he'd love Dean to tell him everything was going to be fine, to fix the addiction, to get rid of Ruby, his temptation. But Dean couldn't do any of that, and they both knew it. Letting him try, letting themselves pretend would only do more harm than good when both knew it was a farce. He was broken, plain and simple. Dean's death had broken him in many ways, leaving him alone and unable to resist temptation, fostering an addiction that had turned him into a monster. "_If I didn't know you, I'd want to hunt you."_

Nothing was right. He knew Dean hadn't wanted him to use his powers, but how could he not when he was saving people's lives by pulling a demon instead of stabbing the victim? How could this possibly be a _bad_ thing? Sure, they were powers that came from Azazel, but did that mean they were inherently bad? Even if he was using them for good? How could he justify stabbing every demon they came cross? Trapping and doing an exorcism that put not only the demon but the victim through physical agony during the process? Wasn't it more humane to do things his way? Why couldn't Dean see that? Before Dad died, he had told Dean that if Sam went dark-side, Dean would have to kill him. Was this that line? Had he crossed it without even realizing it?

Sam's head ached and he pulled his pillow over his face, fighting tears that threatened to fall. He didn't deserve to cry, not now. He had completely screwed everything up, he was a disappointment to the closest thing to a parent figure he had ever been able to depend on. He hadn't saved Dean, he had started working with Ruby, he tapped into the darkness within him, he lied to his brother, he kept secrets, and now he was deeply aching for a hit of blood. He was nothing more than a loser addict making excuses for his behavior in order to justify continuing it. He was weak and he hated himself for it, yet at the same time, all he wanted to do was pick up the phone and arrange a meeting with Ruby. What was wrong with him? Why did he lack the self-control he needed to beat this thing? And why did he not really want to beat this thing? Why couldn't he pull demons and save people without actually drinking the blood? Of course, that would be too easy, and if there was one thing certain in life, the Winchester luck prevented the easy way as a solution to anything.

"You sure you're okay, Sam?" Dean asked, sitting on the edge of Sam's bed, "I'm worried about you, man."

"Don't." Sam retorted dryly, unable to put on a happy facade for his brother, barely able to pull off indifferent. He was torn between wanting to rage at his brother for making him feel guilty and shaming him into stopping his quest to take down Lilith and feeling so completely ashamed that he wanted to bury himself in a hole and just quit. Neither was an option, so he opted to continue lamenting in silence and hoping Dean would leave him alone for once.

"We're cool, right?" Dean asked after a moment, "I apologized…"

Sam remained silent, not knowing what to say. He was well-aware that Dean apologized, and he had promised to stop using his powers and he had already forgiven Dean for hitting him...twice...but forgiving Dean did nothing to make him feel better about his own failures. Dean wasn't the problem here, _he_ was. His sick blood habit and inability to do _anything_ without royally screwing it up was the issue. Sure, he wished Dean would understand where he was coming from, but he knew that wasn't an option. He had always known that wasn't an option; Dean saw things in black and white, with no patience for grey areas. Sam practically lived in the grey areas lately, so it was a subject they'd never be able to even discuss rationally, much less agree about. Explaining his reasons, his logic, the circumstances...none of that would help the situation because Dean was incapable of seeing those hazy areas that fell between wrong and right.

He was pretty sure their relationship would never be the same again.

While Dean was in hell, Sam had imagined getting his brother back daily. He had never imagined, though, that things would be so different if Dean returned. He thought they'd still be brothers, that they'd be able to pick up where they left off like they did after Stanford. He imagined Dean may come back changed, but would still be his brother underneath it all and they'd fall into a routine. He envisioned himself giving his brother a long hug, having a few beers and doing everything in his power not to let Dean die again. Instead, he was sneaking off with Ruby, Dean was dealing with _angels_, they weren't ever on the same wavelength and there was so much distrust and secrets between them that Sam wasn't sure they'd ever be able to recover. It hurt so badly to think that even though Dean was back, they'd never be like they were before.

"I'm not mad at you, Dean." Sam finally replied, feeling the tension growing in the room and wanting to prevent Dean from blowing up again, "I'm just...tired."

"You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah."

Both boys knew it was a lie. Sam felt Dean rise from the bed and a few seconds later he could hear the sink running as Dean got ready for bed. Pillow still pressed tightly to his face, Sam's mouth filled with saliva, the prickling need for a hit of blood now increasing to the point where he could nearly imagine it on his tongue, coating his mouth and teeth with a tangy, bitter taste. He imagined it sliding down his throat, sending warmth throughout his body in the same way that alcohol numbed his brother when he wanted an escape. He could imagine the tingling that would fill his body as his senses became hyper-aware, the rush of energy and the clarity of mind once it hit his system. He missed it terribly, he had made a mistake saying he'd stop.

He dug his fingers into his pillow, moaning lowly. He needed it. Not just wanted, needed. It was becoming harder to think as he allowed his thoughts to drift solely towards the blood. He needed to find Ruby, he needed Dean to go to sleep so he could find Ruby. He needed a fix or he was going to lose his mind. His body ached for it, and he realized in this moment that he was truly a slave to his vice; but right now he wanted it so badly that he couldn't be bothered to care about the fact that it was an addiction, something disgusting that needed to be avoided and not given in to.

The pillow was pulled from his face roughly, despite Sam's best attempts to leave it in place and thus block out the rest of the world. He looked up to see Dean standing over him, a cup of water in one hand and some pills in another.

"You look like you have a headache." Dean commented as Sam stared dumbly up at his older brother, "Take these and get some rest. Tomorrow will be better."

Sam silently took the pills, recognizing the move as another peace offering and a show of concern. He managed to summon a slight smile before swallowing the medication, not really needing painkillers but not wanting to reject Dean's offer of support. It was important to their current level of functioning that they did that they could to maintain whatever small level of peace and order they had managed to string together, so the gesture needed to be reciprocated with compliance or it would all unravel. Sam vaguely wondered when things had gotten this bad, when they had reached the point where all of their communication had to be in gestures to prevent fighting, lies or miscommunication.

Even though his brother was back, he felt even more alone than he had in his entire life.

Sam laid in bed, resisting the urge to shift restlessly as Dean settled in to his own bed for the night and turned off the light. He couldn't stop thinking about it, the draw and temptation calling out to him like a siren beckoning with its song. He knew he had to resist; he told Dean he'd stop. He had promised himself that he would stop, that it was a dangerous slope and he wouldn't be a monster that had to be put down like Jack Montgomery. But it was...so….hard.

It didn't take long for Dean's breathing to even out as his older brother gave into the beckoning slumber that was calling both of them, but Sam refused to allow himself the escape of unconsciousness. He couldn't think about anything other than the warm red substance that had made him feel alive again after he thought he would never feel anything other than emptiness and pain when Dean died. He lasted only ten minutes after Dean had fallen asleep before slipping out of bed and to the door, careful not to make any noise as he walked outside of the room.

He pulled out his cell phone, calling a familiar number, "Hey, Ruby, it's me. Can we meet?"

With one last look towards the motel room, Sam felt a wave of shame and disgust wash through him. He was so weak, so pathetic, so unworthy of anything from his brother other than hatred. He was just a useless junkie who only cared about getting his next fix, regardless of the cost. Dean was right, he _was_ a monster. It only took Ruby a few minutes to arrive, and Sam gave her a half-smile before glancing back to the faded wooden door.

"I am so sorry, Dean."


	11. Chapter 9

_A teenchester snapshot. The next will likely be from the end of S4. Thanks for the reviews! They keep me motivated!_

xxxxxx

"Get away from me!" Sam shouted shrilly, stumbling over his own feet as he backed away from his brother, who was glaring at him with a look of pure anger, "Stay back!"

Dean took a step forward, his fists clenched, and asked in a tone that completely showed his fury, "What did you do!?"

"It wasn't me! I swear!" Sam replied, horrified and still backing away, "I would never! I swear it wasn't me!"

Dean raised a fist and Sam leapt back again, trying to put as much distance between them as possible. "Sam, don't lie to me."

"I'm not lying!" Sam protested, raising his hands in a 'calm down' gesture, "I swear, Dean, it wasn't me. I would never do that!"

Dean crossed the distance between them in just a few strides, and pushed Sam against the wall. He used enough force to be menacing, but not enough to actually hurt his brother; just because he wasn't angry didn't mean he was going to completely fly off the handle. Yet. He grabbed Sam's arms, growling out, "Right, why should I believe you? Three days ago, I didn't think you'd fill my duffle bag with condoms or superglue my boxer legs shut. Now I don't know what you're capable of. If you had _anything_ to do with this-"

"I swear! I don't even know what it means!" Sam protested desperately, "Please, Dean, you've got to believe me!"

Dean sighed angrily, releasing his grip on the 12 year old and turning instead to punch the wall angrily, "I'm going to kill somebody."

"It wasn't me."

"I believe you. You're a crappy liar." Dean replied, still seething though now his fury was directed at the bedroom wall instead of his brother's face, "When I find out who it was-"

Sam stepped away from the wall, still taking care to leave some distance between himself and Dean just in case his older brother flew off the handle again. He winced as Dean's fist went through the drywall and he commented, "Uncle Bobby's going to tan your hide for busting holes in his wall."

"Damn straight he is." Bobby said from the doorway, scowling at the two boys, "What the hell is going on? It sounded like the WWE was taking place up here."

Sam and Dean looked at each other, Dean's anger deflated and replaced with guilt upon Bobby's appearance. Sam looked away first, taking in the mess of their bedroom. The mattress to Sam's bed was half on the floor, all of their blankets and sheets strewn around haphazardly. The lamp was on its side, the dresser drawers were open and half-emptied, the contents of Sam's backpack were strewn around carelessly, papers crumpled, ripped or worse. Dean's knife was jammed into the top of the wooden dresser, embedded nearly a quarter of the way into the dark oak. Bullets were scattered around the room and not an inch of the floor was visible under the wreckage.

"What the hell are you two boys thinking?" Bobby asked harshly, looking from one contrite boy to the other, "Look at this place; in case you don't remember, this isn't some dingy hotel room that you guys will leave and not look back at. You two will have your work cut out for you, getting this straightened out."

Sam opened his mouth to apologize, but Dean beat him to it, "Sorry, Bobby, we'll get it all cleaned up and I'll patch the wall. I don't know what was thinking."

"I'm really sorry, Uncle Bobby." Sam added, "Are you doing to tell our dad?"

Bobby stared at the two boys long and hard, able to picture the scenario of what happened clearly since he had heard the shouting and thuds from downstairs in the library, where he had been working on translating a book until they started fighting. Dean had come home in a bad mood from school, slamming doors and storming around like a bull in a china shop. Sam had been much more subdued, seemingly not knowing why Dean was angry and wanting to steer clear of his older brother so he didn't incur any wrath. Eventually, they had both found themselves together upstairs, and what's when the fighting started. It had something to do with a girl and chlamydia rumor. Screaming accusations and threats had quickly turned into the sounds of a tussle, and judging from the disarray of the room, a magnificent one. It was only when the screaming and fighting had stopped that Bobby decided to check on them to make sure both were still alive; John would not take it well if he returned and one of the boys had killed the other. Of course, John wouldn't take it took well if he found out the boys had been making menaces of themselves either, so Bobby replied carefully, "No, not if you two boys fix this room and your attitudes."

"Yes, sir." the boys responded in unison, and Bobby nodded approvingly when Sam went straight to work picking up the things around him, clearly intent on proving himself worthy of not getting called out in front of his father.

Dean, on the other hand, stared at Sam for a moment, then Bobby, and asked, "When's Dad getting back? Have you heard from him?"

"Why, you in a hurry to leave? Tired of my amenities?"

"The maid service sucks." Dean responded dryly, not missing a beat, "Look at this mess." he tilted his head in his little brother's direction, added teasingly, "Look, this one isn't even wearing her maid costume."

"I can always go pick one up." Bobby retorted, shaking his head in amusement, "John said he'd be back tonight or tomorrow when I talked to him this morning, so I wouldn't waste time getting this put back together, you hear me?"

"Yes, sir." Dean replied, looking relieved at the news. This caused Bobby to raise an eyebrow, since not once over the boys' lifetimes had either of them looked excited to leave when the time came. Bobby kept his eye on Dean, knowing the boy knew he was being watched and getting the slightest bit of satisfaction out of seeing the boy squirm a bit under his scrutiny. Dean was cocky and secure in himself and his image, and was carrying around the attitude of a 'I know everything' teenager with more arrogance than Bobby had seen outside of the movies in ages. He wasn't one to openly question and assert himself like Sam was, but self-assured waves rolled off of the older teen constantly and Bobby knew sometimes the kid had to be knocked down a peg or two to get his self-confidence under control before his father returned and knocked it down a few pegs for him. Bobby would never admit it to any Winchester, but it was moments like these that he enjoyed best, where the boys were acting like normal teenage siblings and squalling like kids should be. They had been forced to mature quicker than most and had experienced things no child should ever see up close, which made these typical moments even more special and powerful.

"Someone started a rumor about Dean. He doesn't want to go back to school here." Sam supplied, silently watching the nonverbal exchange between Bobby and Dean. Bobby couldn't help but smile, knowing that Sam picked up on a lot more than anyone gave him credit for, and this was just further proof of that fact.

"What sort of rumor?"

"Someone said I had chlamydia." Dean grumbled, "I thought it may be Sam, with everything else that had been going on…"

Bobby scowled, knowing all too well what Dean meant. The two had been involved in a prank war against each other, which meant nothing in the house had been safe for the last two weeks of their 3-month visit. It had started innocently enough, Dean unscrewing the top of the salt shaker so when Sam went to add salt to his eggs, he added an entire container of salt. Sam had retaliated by adding dye to the shower head so Dean's head and body were stained blue for two days. It was funny enough by itself, but the fact that Sam had kept asking Dean what was wrong and why he was so blue had made it even more entertaining, not to mention the outrage of Dean's reaction. He should have known then that things would escalate quickly.

The next day, Bobby had awoken to a loud shriek and the distinct sound of something falling down the stairs. It turns out Dean had waited for nearly an hour to startle his half-asleep brother. If Sam would have been hurt, Bobby was certain the prank war would have ended right there, but Sam had laughed it off, calling Dean a jerk and hitting his arm, and instead started planning t revenge. That afternoon, Dean had been lugging in groceries for Bobby when he had been ambushed with the water hose from his little brother, who had been sitting on the roof in wait.

At this point, Bobby was pretty sure that he should stop this before it got out of control. The nagging voice that warned him that Sam playing on the roof was dangerous was outmatched by the reminder that he had been a reckless boy once and survived, and he vowed to just keep a closer eye on the situation. At dinner, Sam had sat down at the table and his entire chair collapsed, most of the screws having been removed by his sneaky older brother. The following morning, Dean had laced Sam's oatmeal with ex-lax and the younger Winchester was forced to stay home from school due to bathroom troubles. Unfortunately for Dean, that gave Sam plenty of time to think of a perfect retaliation, and Dean's chili had been spiked with ipecac, which left the older boy violently vomiting. Again, Bobby was concerned about escalation, but both Sam and Dean had agreed after their misery had passed that the pranks had been hilarious, so Bobby had once again decided that if it was all in good fun, there was no need to intervene.

After the food tampering, both boys were paranoid and overly careful with things they ingested, not to mention they were carefully checking around corners while entering rooms and, in general, on guard for anything unusual. This is why Bobby had been surprised when on the sixth day he was pulled away from his books by shouting, and had easily located the boys outside, Dean having pinned Sam to the ground and shouting loudly. When Bobby arrived, he saw the reason for Dean's violence; his teeth were stained pink, apparently Sam had added food coloring to the toothpaste. How Dean didn't realize it was beyond Bobby's comprehension, but he didn't expect that Dean payed close attention to his toothpaste when he was half-asleep and getting ready for school.

The following day, Sam had lost a fair bit of his hair when Dean tampered with the shampoo and replaced it with Nair. Dean had, in turn, found his favorite gun disassembled, parts strewn from one end of Bobby's property to the other. It had taken three hours to track down the pieces and Dean swore that if his brother ever touched anything of his again, he'd be a dead man walking. Two days passed with no pranking, but instead of feeling more at ease, as if the danger had passed, all three residents of the Singer household were growing more and more on edge, waiting for the inevitable explosion that was sure to come. There was no doubt in anyone's minds that retaliation would be large-scale and vicious, there was no turning back in a prank war, after all.

Sure enough, Dean's payback was the most elaborate prank he had pulled yet and also the most cruel. He had pretended to be attacked in the junkyard, using fake blood to accentuate his screams of terror. Bobby had been out running errands and Sam had panicked upon seeing his brother seemingly seriously injured. The result hadn't been as funny as Dean had hoped; Sam had an anxiety attack when Dean had pretended like he was legitimately dying and Bobby had been furious to come home and find Sam locked in the bedroom and Dean standing at the doorway, a proper mix of concerned and contrite. Bobby had expressed his disapproval, but hadn't handed out further punishment because Dean had been doing a good job of punishing himself for upsetting Sam. It was no surprise when Dean woke the next morning to find himself saran-wrapped so tightly to his bed that he needed help to get free. Sam had confessed to slipping a sleeping pill into Dean's drink the night before, thus earning them both an overdue lecture on tampering with other people's food and beverages. Bobby hadn't come outright to say that pranks were no longer allowed, but he thought he had made his opinion pretty clear, regardless.

Things had been quiet since, which had once again led all three to be on edge once more. The boys hadn't formally declared a truce, and while Bobby wanted to believe that they had seen the way things were escalating and had decided to back off, he knew them better than to assume, or even hope for, that. Therefore, when they had in today and Dean was furious, it wasn't a stretch of the imagination for Bobby to think that Sam had finally taken things a step further. Clearly, this had not been the case, though he could imagine that underneath the anger and sibling rivalry, plots and schemes were brewing. Knowing that John would return soon only meant that the boys were likely to step up their game to get one last prank in before their father returned. While Bobby knew it was in the nature of teenage boys to have fun, even malicious fun sometimes, John tended to disapprove of anything that had the boys acting like normal kids instead of soldiers training for war.

"You two get things picked up. I borrowed something from one of my neighbors with kids, and I thought we'd order pizza tonight since it'll be the last night I'll be seeing you for awhile." Bobby said with a hint of a smile, knowing how much those boys enjoyed pizza and knowing that they'd really enjoy the Nintendo gaming system he had borrowed for the evening. He always tried to end the boys' visits on a positive note, giving them something carefree and fun to remember back on instead of a memory punctuated by the fact that their dad had abandoned them, again, to go on a job. Last time they had set off fireworks, the time before they had played ball out in the junkyard for hours, until all three were ready to drop. The weather wasn't appropriate for outdoor play, now, so this would have to do. Bobby wasn't even sure that the boys' had ever played actual video games, other than the standard variety that all arcades offered.

Sam bounced slightly as he looked at Bobby with an expression of pure elation. Without even knowing what the surprise was, he knew they'd love it. Every time he pictured what a father should be like, Bobby came into his mind. Bobby was smart, caring, funny, a good cook, always willing to help and most importantly, he always made sure they were taken care of and had a little bit of fun, too. He grinned excitedly, loudly exclaiming, "Thanks Uncle Bobby!"

As Sam picked up the pace on tidying, Dean raised an eyebrow at the older hunter, wondering what sort of surprise he had planned and what the catch was. He wasn't sure if it was something done purposefully or not, but it seemed like the grander the gesture Bobby made, the worse the fall-out was with his father. A few months back, Bobby had grilled hamburgers and they had set off fireworks; the next morning John loaded them up and took them on a hunt that nearly got them eaten by a werewolf. Before that, Bobby had taken them to the skating rink and let them learn how to rollerblade. Three days later, their father had taken a hard whack to the head and it had taken all of the boys' strength, willpower and knowledge to get him back to the motel room safely, patched up and healthy again. Even something as simple as a much-needed new pair of shoes had the ability to turn sour, as Dean had learned when Bobby had prepped them with winter clothes before a hunt only for the boys to get lost in the woods and have to spend two nights huddled together for warmth with bare minimum rations until John located them. The Winchesters just weren't meant for surprises.

xxxxx

Sam sat on the floor in front of the sofa, his back pressed against the cushions and his legs sprawled out under the coffee table. He pressed the 'start' button on the controller to pause the game he was playing while he picked up a slice of greasy pepperoni pizza out of the box, taking two large bites and placing it on the paper plate that held two other pizza crusts, "Dean, it's cheating if you go to the mushroom house during your turn. You know I unlocked that area, so it's mine."

"First come, first serve, Sammy." Dean retorted from his spot on the sofa, nudging Sam in the back with his knee and finishing off a slice of pizza, "Give me a piece with sausage on it."

"Get your own, jerk." Sam retorted, taking a swig of his soda and picking up the remote. With a sly grin, he quickly grabbed the last piece of pepperoni and sausage pizza and licked the top, dropping it back in the box and picking up the game controller.

"You little bitch!" Dean growled, smacking Sam in the back of the head, "You knew I wanted that!"

"First come, first serve." Sam taunted, making a face that he knew Dean couldn't see, although there was no doubt in his mind that Dean could imagine it and was scowling back at him.

Dean reached over, taking Sam's glass and licking the rim of it, then gave Sam a triumphant, self-satisfied smirk, "Now who's laughing?"

"Dude, I swapped our cups out three minutes ago. You just licked your own glass."

"No you didn't."

"Wanna bet?"

"Wanna get your ass kicked?"

"You wish."

Dean pushed Sam's shoulder, not roughly but hard enough to propel his brother forward slightly, and while Sam was down he reached over and swiped the pepperoni pizza slice from Sam's place and shoved the entire thing in his mouth.

"Hey, I was eating that!" Sam exclaimed, a look of complete indignation on his face that changed to fury when he opened the box and realized there was no more pepperoni pizza left, "And that was the last slice!"

"Eat the sausage. You already put your cooties all over it." Dean retorted, making a show of chewing the pizza, his mouth open and a slice of pepperoni hanging out, "Mmm, it's so good."

"I hate sausage on pizza." Sam grumbled, pulling off the pieces of sausage and flicking them in Dean's direction. Dean, unphase, picked them off of his shirt and the sofa when they landed, popping them into his mouth. "Gross, Dean."

"You're gross."

"Your face is gross."

Dean rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath about bratty kid brothers, and then reached over Sam for the controller, "If you aren't going to play, dude…."

"I am playing! I was taking a break to eat until you _stole my pizza_." Sam replied defensively, slapping Dean's hand away and unpausing the game, picking up where he left off in his quest to earn gold coins and save the princess. They were quiet for a few minutes, until Sam lost the level and kicked his leg out in frustration, "I hate this stupid game."

Dean snorted, mashing buttons on his own controller and staring at the tv as he spoke to his brother, "If you hate it so much, why have you spent the last three hours playing it?"

"Because I want to win it." Sam replied petulantly, "And because if I don't win it now, I never will. You know Dad would never buy us one of these, and Uncle Bobby's going to have to return it when we leave."

Dean sighed, not wanting to get into a pity party about them having to take off. More and more, lately, Sam had been wanting to spend time with Bobby and less time on the road, and their dad had mentioned a few times that they needed to toughen up the younger boy. Dean couldn't help but worry that the stubborn streak in both his father and his brother would cause their family to unravel; Sam clearly preferred to be settled in somewhere and that just wasn't the type of life they led. It was a nice change, occasionally, but they'd been at Bobby's for weeks and Dean was ready to pack up and kill a couple of baddies.

He was saved from having to comment by the sound of his father's voice meeting his ears, "Thanks Bobby, I hope they haven't been too much trouble."

"Nonsense. You think I'd let you leave them here if they were any bother?" Bobby retorted, the increase in volume indicating they were walking towards the boys.

Sam sighed, walking to the TV and turning it off, along with the game console. A scowl on his face, he quickly cleaned up their mess from dinner. He had just picked up the last stray piece of sausage when Dean stood, shoving the two cups into Sam's hands and picking up the empty pizza box, "Go put the cups in the sink, I'll throw this away outside. Are you all packed?"

"Of course. Did you even unpack?" Sam questioned, his earlier enjoyment evaporating rapidly as he heard John's footsteps approaching, "Do you think he'll let us wait until morning?"

"He doesn't sound hurt." Dean replied, as if it explained everything. And, perhaps, it did. If John had been injured, they'd wait until he had recovered. Without injuries, there was no reason to wait until morning, since the monsters never waited. He wanted to say something reassuring to his brother, but was unable to find the words to do so. He didn't get attached to places the way Sam did, and he was nearly always ready to move on to a new city, sink his teeth into a new hunt, meet some new girls.

"Ready to head out, boys?" John asked, entering the room. He rarely wasted time on pleasantries, there was work to be done and he felt it was unnecessary to do a sharing-caring session just because he had been away for a few weeks. He looked from Dean to Sam appraisingly, seemingly pleased that they seemed to be well and in one piece. He took the glasses from Sam, and added, "I'll take care of these, you go get you and your brother's bags and load them up in the car."

"We can't stay until morning?"

"What, you would rather someone die so you could have some of Bobby's scrambled eggs when you wake up?" John asked sternly, his displeasure evident in both his tone and posture, "I don't have time to argue with you, Sam, we need to hit the road. I want to be in Utah by this time tomorrrow night."

"Yes, sir." Sam said sullenly, handing the dishes to his father and moving towards the stairs.

"I trust you two have been on your best behavior?" John asked Dean, once Sam had gotten out of earshot, "Anything I need to know about?"

"No, sir." Dean replied, "Hunt went well?"

"It was a bit tricky to nail down in one location, but once I did things went smoothly. Are you two all packed up or should you be giving Sammy a hand?"

"Everything's ready. Bobby told us you'd be in tonight."

"Good. I'm going to hit the head and then we're going to move out. I'll meet you and your brother in the car." John replied, patting Dean on the shoulder as a way to show his approval, "Try not to do anything to rile up your brother, I don't want to deal with the fallout of 'Prank War 1996.'"

Dean looked at Bobby with a scandalized and betrayed expression, wondering why they'd been thrown under the bus when Bobby had promised them amnesty.

"Don't look at me, boy, I didn't say a word." Bobby interjected, seeing the emotions pass over Dean's face. He was just as surprised as Dean was that John had picked up on that, but at the same time, not. John had a knack for knowing everything that happened when he was away, good and bad, and he long ago gave up trying to figure out how.

John shook his head, "No, Bobby didn't tell me. Haven't I told you boys a hundred times that I know everything you two do, whether you think you're getting away with it or not?"

With that statement, he disappeared into the kitchen, leaving a smirking Bobby and stunned Dean behind. Shaking his head, Dean muttered, "If I didn't know better, I'd think he had some sort of special powers. This is unreal."

"Get moving, son!" John's voice called out, and Dean grinned at Bobby, shaking his head in amusement and surprise. Bobby reached over and squeezed Dean's shoulder tightly, showing affection without having to really say much, and Dean smiled to show he understood and appreciated the gesture.

"See you next time, Bobby."

"I'll be here."

The sound of footsteps appeared on the staircase and Dean called out to his brother, "Last one to the car has to lick the bottom of my shoe!"


End file.
